


water under the bridge

by jomlette



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, I promise, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Murder, Supernatural Elements, background allurance, the major character death warning is just to be safe!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-07 22:20:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 36,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15917436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jomlette/pseuds/jomlette
Summary: Shiro's able to see ghosts. It's not always a good thing.-To put it simply, the man is charming. Every day without fail, he is the only other person in the library under the age of eighty, other than Shiro himself. Long, wind whipped hair covers a majority of his face from Shiro’s angle, but he’s been blessed a few times before. The head the hair is attached to is nothing short of a beauty. But those eyes, a dark storm of greys and blues, Shiro could write enough words about them to fill the entire library plus ten more.





	water under the bridge

**Author's Note:**

> it's finally here! this is my fic for the sheith big bang 2018. thank you to my friend for being my beta, despite not having a tumblr and knowing next to nothing about voltron.
> 
> i'd also like to thank my artists for making incredible art for this fic!! both of you are amazing.
> 
> TheCorgay [[x]](https://twitter.com/TheCorgay/status/1037866380979200003)
> 
> Oppii [[x]](https://twitter.com/fivespacecats/status/1037943572958306304?s=20)

The sun beats down Shiro’s neck as he walks down the busy city streets. Some days are subway days, and today is nothing short of a perfect air conditioned subway day. His reason to walk to work instead has absolutely nothing to do with Lance’s comments about his lunch choices, no matter how much the man may laugh about it. 

Truth be told, Lance  _ may  _ have why Shiro initially chose to walk (although he’ll never say it out loud; if Lance’s head gets any bigger it’ll fall right off his neck), but someone else became the reason he stuck with it. And that person has some of the prettiest eyes Shiro has ever seen in his twenty five years of living. 

Shiro stops at the library to return a book he didn’t end up reading. Somewhere between the outdated cat posters, rickety wooden desks and computers that should’ve died off in the seventeen hundreds, is an odd charm to the building. Deeper down the vast array of isles, you’ll find vintage vinyls, dusty figurines, and the occasional old movie poster. Maybe that could be Shiro’s excuse for returning so often.

He gives a nod to the old librarian, walks into the cookbook section and mindlessly swipes his fingers along the dust. Every fifteen seconds, he shifts his stance a little more to the left, shuffling him down further bit by bit. Eventually, he sees  _ him. _

To put it simply, the man is charming. Every day without fail, he is the only other person in the library under the age of eighty, other than Shiro himself. Long, wind whipped hair covers a majority of his face from Shiro’s angle, but he’s been blessed a few times before. The head the hair is attached to is nothing short of a beauty. But those eyes, a dark storm of greys and blues, Shiro could write enough words about them to fill the entire library plus ten more. 

He’s reading a different book today, Shiro notices. It’s likely a bad one, from the way Stormy Eyes scrunches his nose periodically. With every page turn, his fingers seem to glide across the paper with more grace than Shiro has in all his limbs combined. That rustic red jacket of his clashes horribly with the aesthetic of his grandfather glasses, but somehow Stormy Eyes pulls it off effortlessly. Shiro’s disappointed to see the time on his watch. 

When he exits the library, he narrowly avoids tripping over a kid sitting on the steps of the building. He spares a glance back and sees the young boy unphased, and that’s good enough for him to keep jogging.

#

The sweet smell of lilies greets Shiro when he steps out of the elevator in his office building. It’s an overwhelming scent, like someone doused the room with perfume. The weight of the scent is as heavy as the hushed whispers circulating between the cubicles, around the coffee makers, and printers. The floor is much denser than he remembers. Talk and chitchat are commonplace, but the voices all merge into an unsettling white noise.

“Katie?” He calls out to his cubicle neighbor, who is always informed of the gossip happening on their floor. Now that he looks around, everyone looks a little bit dreary; Even Katie, despite not being the most chipper of workers, slouches just a little bit more than usual. 

She doesn’t say anything, but nudges her head to the left, where Shiro can see a bouquet of white lilies peeking out of the cubicle. All the negative energy concentrates on that small area, and he walks over to the space to find a woman hunched over on the desk.

Nancy. Or was it Nora? He remembers her vaguely. Perhaps they had a conversation once or twice, or maybe she walked by a few times before when Lance was telling a wildly animated story, and her face just became part of the narrative. Regardless of their relationship, she turns around, eyes red rimmed, sunken, tired, but most of all, sad and grieving.

“Are you okay?” he asks gently

“I…” she trails off, “I don’t know.”

Shiro peaks a quick look around her cubicle. Papers are organized into neat piles, pens of several colours in their places, and of course the must have office pun posters. Several pictures of what he presumes to be her family decorate the small work desk, some more worn down from constant touching and handling. In her hands is one of the smaller photos, of a little girl smiling unabashedly at the camera, held high by an equally jovial old man. A gold tooth in the man’s wide smile stands out from the lush green of the background, as does the gleam of a ring on his finger. The hand clutches the photo a little bit tighter.

“Careful, you’ll wreck it that way,” Shiro gingerly places his hands on her arms, “I saw those flowers on your desk. I’m sorry for your loss.”

She stares on at him, before letting out a shaky breath.

“I miss him,” she breathes out, voice barely above a whisper. The verbal revelation leaves her more visibly torn up than before. “God, I should’ve been there. He just died so unexpectedly, I wasn’t able to go sooner, it--” Shiro’s hand keeps her from crumbling down on herself. “I can’t believe he’s gone. Just like that.”

Bless Katie, she inconspicuously slides a box of tissues to his hand, and he offers Nancy-or-Nora the box. She takes several tissues and hides her tear stained face. 

“He must be proud of how far you’ve come,” the woman looks up from her tissues, eyes red rimmed, and Shiro continues, “even if he’s farther away, it doesn’t mean he’s gone. He wouldn't want to see you sad like this.”

They talk for a little while. Slowly but surely, she opens up to Shiro, sharing little anecdotes from her grandfather’s life. She’s so caught up in her memories she doesn't notice when he takes over the conversation, telling her things only her grandfather would have possibly known. It's a habit he needs to break. Not all people enjoy being read like they’re transparent.

“I think I'll go home for today,” she says, “don’t think I'll be of much use as I am right now.”

“Of course, I'll let the boss know,” Shiro replies. As she packs her things up, he doesn't fail to notice the drop on her face when she stares at the small photo once more. Ever polite, she shakes his hand and steps around him to walk to the elevator, but Shiro can't get himself to leave it at that. “Um, one more thing?”

She looks back at him passively from inside the elevator. Really, he shouldn't say this. “Your grandfather…you should check his room. He might've left you a surprise. Perhaps…” Shiro waits. Listens. “...a ring of some sort?”

The last thing Shiro sees of her is her face morph into shock before the elevator doors close like curtains. The air that hung low in the room just earlier is climbing it's way back up to its usual vigor, and for that he’s glad. He shifts his eyes to the old man standing a few feet away from him. The old man’s gold tooth glitters, even now, as he grins, before disappearing into thin air. He’s definitely one of the friendlier ones he’s encountered.

Shiro lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d held. All the faces that were once observing, now left without a show, slowly shift away, creating the usual homogenous buzz of a busy day.

He feels Katie’s hand pat him on the back. “Expected nothing less from our local therapist,” she praises. 

#

Before his lunch break, Shiro hears familiar voices emerge from the elevator. He starts saving his files; The loud and vibrant voices guarantee he won’t be getting any more work done. Katie is already out of her cubicle and by the time he turns around, his cubicle space is occupied with more bodies than there should be.

“There’s the man of the hour!” Lance, bounces off the walls as he places friendly hands on Shiro’s back, turning him to drape his lean arms across his shoulders. It has always been this way; Back when they were strangers, he was no less inviting and welcoming. Never was there a day Lance was not dragging others into his trouble. “My dude, my guy, the number one unofficial-official office therapist--”

“Okay,” Hunk, more contained but no less kind, gently pries Lance off of Shiro, “don’t overcrowd the poor guy.”

“Oh, jealous are we? Don’t worry, there’s enough of me to go around.” 

“Sure, buddy.”

“ _ Definitely _ more than enough,” Katie snickers, “maybe a little bit more than we need."

“Can we please move out of my cubicle?” Shiro interjects,“It’s getting super claustrophobic. Lance, you’re messing up those papers I  _ just _ organized-- ” 

Thankfully, Katie agrees and shoves all four of them out and towards the little break area.Their little swing and rhythm is safe, predictable. They migrate to the worn down sofas, Lance keeping the energy alive, Hunk running the conversation, and Katie squeezing in smart remarks here and there. Somehow Matt and Lotor from floor five sneak in, and even though Shiro  _ knows _ it isn’t their break time yet, they jump in easily anyways. Somehow they always know when to show up at the best times (worst, in Shiro’s opinion). While Lance butts heads with Lotor again, he can’t help but feel like a middleman, not an outsider, but just far enough out of the orbit to be the pluto. 

It’s enough for him, but maybe it’s not. It is, he tells himself, but another part of him wants more.

None of them notice the new figure at the door until Lance makes a commotion about it. It’s Allura, still on duty with her uniform and badge, looking worn out but smiling nonetheless. The day they all met her is a cult classic tale within their little circle. Matt especially, brings up the story as blackmail when he wants something from Lance.

“What brings you here, Allura?” Hunk asks.

“A lady can’t come see her friends because she misses them dearly?” She jokes. The smile she pinned on her face slowly falls, and her stress lines become more prominent. “I’m here to put up some missing person posters on the bulletin boards. It’s, ah--” Shiro’s eyes move down to the clean stack of papers she’s holding, “--it’s another child.”

It’s been a busy month for her, and they all know that. It’s easy to become so immersed in their little work bubble when most of them don’t have much happening outside of the office building. Sometimes they forget that it’s a cruel city, and Allura is often there to be their reality check. Especially recently, her perfect bun has more flyaways and her iron pressed uniform is much more crumpled. Her visits used to be at the very least weekly, but for the past month she hasn’t been around often. 

“Of course I have to ask you guys, but have any of you seen this kid?” Allura asks.

Shiro looks at the picture she hands all of them, and it pulls the life right out of him.

The boy, the very same boy he nearly tripped over at the library, that same youthful face stares back at him blankly, but the gaze pierces his heart. Shiro wills himself up to look back at Allura. Her face is pinched with worry, and notes to practice his poker face later.

“You look like you’ve just seen a ghost. You alright?”

“Yeah, uh,” the others stare at him now with varying degrees of concern and curiosity. He brushes a hand through his hair, “sorry, just thinking. Is there anything you can tell us about this kid?”

Allura stands up the slightest bit straighter, the possibility of a lead bringing her up now. That makes Shiro’s stomach hurt a little bit more. “He’s six years old, average height for his age...his last known location was at a park near his apartment. His father informed us of their little landmark, a place to stay at just in case he would ever get lost. If I can remember, it was the city library just a few blocks from here.” 

“Check there,” Shiro says.

“We did a quick sweep there alre---”

“Just check again,” he interrupts, “I have a hunch that something might be there. Go interrogate the librarian or something, trust me on this.”

They all know what he means by ‘a hunch’. Her uncertain look quickly fades away.

“Thanks for the tip,” she’s almost out of the room when she calls back, “I’ll keep you guys posted!”

Shiro doesn’t want to keep posted, and doesn’t want to think about all the bad fates that could’ve led child to his early death. Even in post mortem, he waits patiently for his father, and that leaves a heavy thump in his heart. 

Shiro keeps his power hidden as much as he can, but the thought of turning someone away when they need his help makes his stomach turn. Back when they first met, the gang noticed his little sparks of sudden knowledge and called him out on it. Having a power like this meant he’s grown to be good at spinning the truth, and after a few vague hand gestures and rambling, they thankfully shrugged it off as one of his many eccentricities. 

The whys and hows died in his mind a long while ago, and now he takes his sixth sense with a grudging acceptance. How many nights of sleep has he lost from hearing,  _ feeling _ the anguish of some of these trapped souls? How many faces has he seen both dead and alive? The thought plagues him when he’s alone with his thoughts, and it makes him want to curse someone else with his sight just so that he’d have someone to share the burden with.

“Woah, you’re gettin’ pretty pale there,” Lance says. Shiro feels an arm nudge him down to sit on the couch, and he does. “Looks like you got the life sucked out of you. Sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” Shiro says with a smile, and just like that, all their worries are calmed.

The rest of the work day goes on as it usually does. Lance goads him about his lack of a lovelife, and Shiro easily smacks him down with a few well placed comments about Allura. After Coran kicks all of them out of the break room he goes back to his own cubicle and tries to get as work done as he can. He and Katie clock out and walk down the street together, and she invites him to go drinking with the rest of the group. It’s tempting, but he’s got other plans. Luckily, Katie isn’t phased.

“Suit yourself,” she shrugs.

After the whole missing kid situation died down, Shiro couldn’t stop thinking about the library guy. The city stops for no one, so who’s to say the guy won’t leave and disappear like that kid did? Morbid thoughts plague his frustrated mine. Curse him for being so lonely, but really, what does he have to lose by trying? That’s what he tells himself as he barges into the library, ignoring the old librarian’s greeting and heading straight for the corner.

It doesn’t occur to him that it’s five thirty pm and the guy probably doesn’t spend twenty four seven in a dusty library, but somehow he’s is still there, in the same spot, in the very same position Shiro last saw him in. Odd, but Shiro has no time for considering logic. He takes a deep breath, quickly smacks himself, and strides up.

“Hi there,” he says, but the inflection is completely off. Instead of sounding confident and collected, it comes off as a question, his voice raising awkwardly high at the end. Regardless, it catches the guy’s attention. Their eyes meet, and it's suddenly far too intimate for Shiro.

“Um, so, I see you here everyday, and I was just wondering,” Shiro rambles, “I’m really sorry if this is too straightforward, but maybe we could go out? For coffee sometime? You can say no, I’ll understand, but...” 

He doesn’t remember closing his eyes, but when he opens them, the guy is looking straight at him. The book he was holding is now fallen on the ground, and his arms are raised defensively. His jaw hangs in shock.

“You…” the guy trails off, voice shaky, like he hasn’t spoken in a long time. His voice is much deeper than Shiro expected.

“Is that a no?” He can’t help voicing his disappointment. “Hey, it’s okay, I---” before he can finish his sentence, the guy jolts up and walks out of the corner, right past Shiro and out of his line of sight. Shiro hangs in surprise for a moment before jogging to the front, but the guy’s already gone. 

The librarian raises a brow at him, but Shiro walks out before she can judge him. Maybe she heard the entire conversation and now thinks he’s an idiot, but he can’t find it in himself to care. That was by far the stupidest thing he’s done to date. He can’t remember how long he walks, but eventually his feet step into the bar that Katie told him the gang would be, and he finds Lotor easily near the counter. Beside him is a drunk, passed out Lance, and no one else.

“It’s only been forty five minutes,” he comments, looking at his watch.

“Allura declined Lance’s direct invitation, Hunk had plans with Shay, and Katie had to drag Matt out because he and the guy in the corner over there have some bad history involving space rocks and a flat earther cult,” Lotor explains matter-of-factually. Shiro’s not sure if he’s serious or not. “Anyways, what brings you here? I thought you had ‘other plans’.”

“Other plans failed horribly, let’s leave it at that.” Shiro grabs the bottle out of Lotor’s hand and takes a huge swig. The burn hurts only a little bit in comparison to his pride. He ignores Lotor’s sigh and manages to down the whole bottle in one chug.

“Losers, all of them,” he hears Lotor mutter.

#

The sun today must have a personal vendetta against Shiro’s eyes, because the stabbing, aching feeling he gets when he tries to open them feels much worse than they usually feel. The painkillers and several liters of water doesn’t quell his pounding headache one bit, and he isn’t even blessed with forgetting the night before. What a rip off.

Stormy Eyes rejected him. Shiro finally put himself out there, and  _ maybe _ his delivery and timing could’ve been better, but he finally put himself out there and was rejected straight on. To make matters worse, Drunk Shiro must’ve blabbed everything to Lotor, who blabbed to everyone else, because so far his morning has been a total nightmare.

“Who is she?” Lance asks for the umpteenth time, “Or he? They? I didn’t even know you were into someone. We should really hang and talk more often. But back to the matter at hand, whoooo---”

Shiro sends him his best  _ please get out of my cubicle before I throw you down the elevator _ face but Lance takes no heed and eggs him on. Curse the man for being immune to hangovers. In desperation, Shiro excuses himself to hide out in one of the men’s bathrooms father away from his usual area, and takes a moment to breathe. He glances at himself in the mirror. Due to his hangover, he forgot to smooth down his hair and now some parts of it stand at a near ninety degrees from his head. If Lotor could see him now, he’d say he looks ridiculous point blank, and Shiro wouldn’t disagree.

He didn’t go to the library that morning. In fact, he made sure to take the long way around the block to ensure he stayed at least fifty meters away from the building at all times (subway prices skyrocketed overnight; When he realized this he was sure the universe was out to damn him). By no means was it not petty, but he didn’t find a single care in him. The guy probably switched libraries. Even maybe cities.

Going through the rest of the morning evading one nosy coworker after another wears Shiro down, and when lunch break comes he pushes everyone into the break room. They all look at him intently, and he starts feeling like a piece of meat on a platter placed in front of hungry lions.

“So you’re probably wondering why I gathered you here,” Shiro starts.

“Nope,” Matt says, popping the ‘p’ at the end. 

“I’m going to say this once, and  _ only  _ once, so that we can finally lay this to rest.” Shiro picks at the loose thread on his cuff, and pushes the sentence out of his throat, “I’d been wanting to ask this certain person out for the longest time, and last night I finally did. I got rejected.”

It’s silent for a little bit too long for comfort. Finally, Hunk delicately grabs his hand, and cradles it like it’ll break any minute.

“Yikes, man,” Hunk says in a tone so sympathetic that Shiro’s insulted.

“How ghastly,” Katie adds, flat delivery betraying her words, “I’m surprised you haven’t buried yourself alive yet.” Shiro’s surprised too.

“You never answered my question!” Lance cries out. “Who is it?”

Shiro’s promised himself to spill everything that happened last night, but Lance’s question catches him stumbling. Library Cutie’s name...why couldn’t he remember it? He remembers the way his hair would fall in front of his eyes when he’d get sucked into his novel, how his eyebrows would furrow at what he assumes to be rough parts in the story he’s enveloped in, but his name escapes him entirely.

“I,” Shiro groans, “I never asked for a name.”

The eyes on him turn deadly. Katie pushes her glasses up, the shine of them making her look more intimidating. Hunk and Matt’s face become blank, and Lance and Lotor just look plain mortified.

“You asked someone out..”

“Someone you’ve liked for a while..”

“And you never bothered to get a  _ name _ ?”

Hunk walks out of the room without saying another word. Matt walks up for a hug and starts rocking them back and forth patronizingly, but he can’t will himself to push him away, even when Matt begins to rub his back. The others are still shooting of bullets of judgement right at his temple. When Hunk walks back in, he brushes Matt off of Shiro and grabs him by the arm, pulling him with him out of the room.   
  
“What are you doing?” Shiro tries pulling weakly at his trapped arm, but Hunk doesn’t budge.

“I went to the boss and told him you ate some bad mac and cheese and now you’ve got agonizing stomach pains and need to take an hour off to get medication.”

“Why?”

“Because dude, I’m gonna be blunt, that story probably made me lose like, ten brain cells.” Hunk lets go of his arm and nudges him towards the elevator. “You’re gonna go down to that library, and find that person. If they aren’t there, look harder. You’re gonna walk up to them, and ask  _ properly _ this time for a date.” 

His face is alarmingly serious. The rest of the group has caught up and they’re discussing ways for Shiro to  _ woo _ his man in a way that reminds him of a group of soldiers discussing battle strategies. Katie breaks the talking by pressing the button to open the elevator. She pushes him in, catching him off guard.

“You better tell us all the details when you get back, okay?” She sends him a cheeky salute, and has the nerve to add, “Get well soon!” before the doors shut completely, leaving Shiro alone in silence.

It’s a stupid idea. It isn’t a good idea in practice, nor in theory. He’s got a lot to do today.  It occurs to him that he doesn’t need to go to the library just because his work peers tell him to. It’s not like he’s being tracked or anything (not that he’d put it past the Holts, but he was sure to check earlier), but at the same time, what else does he have to lose? Certainly not his dignity. There’s less than a one percent chance the guy even goes to the library anymore, and yet the nervous pit inside him grows steadily with each foot closer to his destination.

Nothing in the library has changed in the slightest, and that gives him some comfort in normalcy. Shiro walks closer the usual corner, and it looks the same as it always has. What catches him off guard, however, is the yank on the shoulder coming from the young teen romance aisle, and the arms that pull him into a tight hold. Before he can yell out and/or disarm his attacker, a hand goes to cover his mouth and  a pair of familiar eyes appear in front him.

“Mnf?” Shiro voices through the hand. The grip on him doesn’t loosen. 

“Are you going to scream if I let you go?” He asks.  _ God,  _ his voice is smoothly angelic, reminding him of the gentle purr of an engine. Shiro shakes his head slowly, and the guy removes his hands.

They stand in a palpable silence, neither daring to make a move after such a sudden encounter. He’s shorter, Shiro notices. It’s about a four inch difference, about half the width of himself, yet he was able to disable him so quickly. If he looks a bit closer, he can see the faint outline of lean muscle even with the jacket. The guy is checking him out too. Shiro watches his eyes focus intently on his body, jumping from one point to another, and he starts to feel like he’s see through. He truly hopes that the arm, scar and hair isn't scaring the man.

“So,” Shiro coughs, “Last time...I never really asked for you name.”

Stormy stares him down with those deadly eyes of his. His shoulders tighten and he crosses his arms together, and Shiro thinks he might take off again.

“Keith,” the guy,  _ Keith _ , replies.

“Keith,” Shiro feels the name on his tongue, and it fits, strangely. “My name’s Shiro.”

“Shiro,” he tests out the name as well, mirroring him.

It’s cute. He’s cute. Maybe a little bit awkward and rough, but that only adds to the attraction Shiro has for him. 

Keith mumbles something out that he doesn’t catch. “Pardon?” he asks. 

“So, about that coffee..” Keith repeats, “is that offer still on the table?”

Shiro nearly chokes on air when Keith looks at him. “Uh, yeah!” He says too enthusiastically, “I didn’t think you’d want to since you kind of...walked out?”

Keith’s arms cross a bit tighter and his face turns a bit sour. “I didn’t reject you,” his words feel rehearsed and controlled, like he’s choosing his words carefully as he goes, “you just caught me at a bad time. I haven’t been asked out in a long while.”

That’s one of the most outrageous things Shiro’s heard all week. He couldn’t possibly think of any earthly reason for a man in his twenties who looks like the perfect union of heaven’s blessings and hell’s fire to not be getting attention, much less be single. The thought of Keith attempting to look humble crossed his mind, but the way the man held himself, arms crossed like a shield and anxiousness making itself known with knitted brows thwarts any suspicion he holds.

“Instead of coffee,” Keith rocks back and forth on his heels, “we could just hang out here? If you want.”

“Of course,” Shiro replies much too fast. Keith’s eyes light up just a little bit, before he looks away again. Longer hair can be a hassle, but now he sees the practicality of it for Keith, who tilts his head downwards so that the bangs block most of his face from his view. He nearly lifts a hand to brush the offending hair out of the way, but a sudden ringing from his coat pocket makes the two of them jump.

“That’s my cue to go back to work,” he sighs, reading the several spam texts from Katie, “I’ll see you at six?”

Keith nods and Shiro stops by a bakery to pick up some cupcakes for Hunk.

#

He’s never cared to know when the library closes for the night, but now he’s thankful that it’s far later into the night than he expected.

He arrives to the sight of Keith in the same corner as always, with two coffees in hand (how he managed to sneak by the librarian and her ‘no food no drink’ sign, Shiro doesn’t have a clue). The coffee, though delicious, goes cold from Shiro’s neglect as he’s enraptured by Keith’s quiet reading.

Each word, each syllable is said with care and passion, Keith’s voice painting a beautiful picture of the fantastical world the novel describes. The immersion is broken only when Shiro looks up from the pages of the book they share and looks at how Keith’s face. It lights up in the best way when he reads a particularly powerful line.

When Shiro’s eyes begin to flutter closed, he feels Keith jostle next to him. They’re shoulder to shoulder, Keith’s hair tickling his neck. The book lays closed in his lap. From this close proximity, he can smell the faint scent of forest coming from the man next to him. Every few seconds he can hear Keith’s shallow breaths, the only thing indicating the body beside him is truly there, aside from the warmth. Keith’s hand shyly slips into his, and he’s out like a light.

#

Their first date turns into another, and soon their meetup becomes a routine thing. By Keith’s request, Shiro doesn’t introduce him to Lance and the others yet; when he asked why, he gave a shrug and stayed silent for the rest of the date. Shiro doesn't ask again. Moments like those, where they truly have a conflict in interest seldom occur, so he lets it slide. It’s not a real problem anyways.

It only gets difficult when Lance makes it difficult.

“I introduced you to Nyma the same day me and her got together,” Lance is sprawled across Shiro’s desk, effectively stopping all his chances of being productive for once. 

“And that same day she handcuffed you to a lampost and stole your car,” Shiro reminds, “I don’t want to know where she got those handcuffs.”

“Maybe not the best example I could’ve used, but the point still stands. You owe me.”

Shiro wants to say that he doesn’t, wants to say that the Nyma incident probably  _ was _ Lance’s best example (he reminds himself to help Lance make his tinder profile a little less trashy),  but he knows without the group’s effort to kick him out of work, he would’ve just turned to online audio books. But that would mean acknowledging his cowardice to Lance, and right now he just isn’t in the mood to sink low again, so he gets up to copy some important documents. Something about a truce between their rival company, Galra Incorporated, at least, that was what he got out of Coran’s jungle analogy. Lance follows him like a cat hoping to get more insight into his love life.

At the printer, he hopes Katie can help deter his pest. She doesn’t.

“How’s the sex?” she asks, not looking up from the machine.

“Katie,” he warns.

“Asking the truly urgent questions,” Lance snickers.

Sometimes he wonders if having friends who genuinely care about all facets of his life is a blessing or a curse. Lately, it’s been tripping into the latter territory. Having disinterested frenemies is the only silver lining in his work day. Lotor emerges from the neighboring elevator, supposedly having snuck out of his duties again for the third time that week, and hears the very end of their conversation, which just so happens to involve Lance chanting, “sex, sex, sex!”

He looks to Shiro, eyes filled with pity. “Do I want to know?” he deadpans.

“No,” Shiro deadpans back, and that has Lotor pressing the close button on the elevator, effectively escaping the mess that is Shiro’s friend circle.

Break time doesn’t come any sooner for Shiro’s weathering patience. With Hunk’s help, he manages to sneak past Lance while the man rips Lotor a new one for supposedly insulting Hunk’s baking skills; in return, Shiro promises to come over sometime that month so that Hunk could help him plan his diet, since one cannot survive on off-brand mac and cheese alone. He’s hiding out in one of the more secluded break rooms, finally basking in the quiet peace. That is, until the door swings open, and a familiar woman in police attire walks in. Shiro’s about to politely greet her when he notices the usual confident bounce in her step is gone. 

“Sorry to bother you like this, Shiro,” she sits down on the sofa adjacent to him, “I asked Hunk where you were hiding. I heard why, and I can’t say I really blame you.”

She’s tired, he notices. She’s always been some degree of tired, but her new tiredness is a heavier kind. It’s one that weighs heavy not only on the body, but on the mind as well. It’s an unnatural look for her. 

“I came here to tell you that you were right,” she explains, “that missing boy, he was near the library. We--ah, congratulations on the relationship by the way. Where was I? Oh right---we found a body messily hid in the small graveyard just near the building. We identified it as the boy’s.”

Oh. _ Oh. _ He’s been so preoccupied with Keith that he’d forgot about their little chat just a short few weeks earlier.

“I’m so sorry to hear about that,” he offers.

“There’s been another missing person’s case reported, and its another child. Similar age, similar story. We’re thinking it might be there might be a serial kidnapper on the loose.”

It’s a lot to take in at once. The pain he felt for that child, alone and blissfully ignorant of his situation, comes back tenfold. Just like with Nancy or Nora’s old man, the child’s soul will only move on once the killer’s been caught, and god knows when that will be, if ever. Until then, the boy will be sentenced to suffer among the countless other spirits of cold murder victims that Shiro forced himself to ignore the screaming pains of years ago. No amount of years will be enough to erase his memories of desperate souls begging for his help when he had nothing to offer them other than a sad side glance. 

Allura doesn’t overstay her welcome. When she leaves, Shiro takes a minute to collect himself, then heads back to his cubicle. Thankfully, Katie isn’t dense; she side eyes him and hands him the rest of her french vanilla coffee she brought from home. 

#

“Rough day?” Keith asks as he turns off the stove.

“Something like that,” he trails off.

It’s maybe the fourth or fifth time Keith has come over to his apartment, but Shiro’s already adjusted to the second body occasionally inhabiting his place. Keith does the cooking, because Shiro is incapable of boiling water correctly, and cleaning is his responsibility because Keith always trails messes. They’ve learned to compromise and compensate for each other in many ways. For instance, they’ve settled on homemade spaghetti for tonight instead of Shiro’s suggestion for mac and cheese. It’s a start.

A few minutes into dinner and Keith’s barely touched his plate, poking and prodding at the noodles with his fork like a child would with roadkill. A little quirk about him he noticed from their first meal that he cooked; he stares on at the food like he has no idea what to do with it.

“It's good,” for emphasis, Shiro shoves a fork full into his mouth.

Keith raises an eyebrow.

“Your cooking is good,” he says through a mouthful of pasta, “it's not gonna kill you.”

After a beat, he scoffs. “Like hell it won't,” he grumbles, picking up the salt.

Time passes easily when Keith’s around, mostly because the man is surprisingly energetic with each and every topic they buzz through. Figures, from all the time Keith has spent buried in books has given him a wide range of knowledge, almost like a wise old man. Just like a wise old man, he’s observant. Shiro doesn’t realize he’s fallen silent until Keith has fallen silent right along with him, and he looks up from his half finished plate to see him looking on in concern.

“You’re tense,” Keith comments.

Shiro hums in agreement.

“Lance giving you trouble again?” He laughs to that. He’s told Keith about the rest of them, and after telling him about Lance’s antics at the workplace, he made the exact same face everyone who’s ever known Lance for more than half a second. 

“No, that's everyday.”

“You’ll feel better if you get it out of your chest,” Keith offers. He doesn’t really want to. But he’s always been a bit self sabotaging.

“Allura came into the office today.” 

“The one with the moon cult brother?”

“That's Katie, I’m talking about the police officer. She..she came in with some news.”

His voice drops at the end, and Keith’s brows furrow. Shiro can feel Keith’s concern through his eyes. He slowly places his fork down on the table.

“You must've heard about it by now,” Shiro says, “There’s been some kids going missing, and one of them was just found dead.”

Dead, never to be seen walking again by anyone, except himself. The child may never even realize his state, and maybe that’s better. Shiro doesn’t know. He never has. 

There’s a glint in Keith’s widened eyes. His shoulders tighten, and he’s sitting straighter now. Keith edges a bit closer, until he’s leaning forward on the table, arms folded. 

“Do they have a suspect?” He asks.

“Not that I know of,” Shiro’s starting to lose his appetite, but he doesn’t want to insult Keith, so he tries to power through the sinking feeling in his stomach. Before he can grab his fork again to resume eating, Keith shifts in his seat. “But anyways--”

“Did Allura tell you where the other kid disappeared?”

“No.” Keith isn’t doing it on purpose. He doesn’t know. But, he is observant. That’s how their relationship has worked so far. It’s not like they’re always walking on eggshells, but they’ve both got their own secrets, and Shiro’s decided that’s fine by him. Secrets are fine. 

But Keith, he’s looking at him expectantly, and he realizes that he won’t back out of the conversation on his own. 

“There was something else I wanted to tell you about tonight,” he swerves the conversation away from the kidnappings, hoping that Keith will take the hint. Thankfully, he’s relaxed back into his seat. But Shiro’s chosen his poison now.

“Lance, Allura, and the rest of them, they want to meet you.”

Keith doesn’t respond right away, and that itself is worrisome. Unlike himself, the man is usually more forward with his emotions. Well, no, forward isn’t the best descriptor, it would be more accurate to say that he’s just more prone to spilling out his emotions than Shiro is.

“I thought we talked about this,” Shiro can definitely sense the warning in his tone. 

“I know we did, but my friends are really eager to see you, so maybe we could--”

“No,” Keith’s hands curl into tense fists on the table.

“But why are you so opposed?” 

When he looks over to Keith, the man has hunched over on himself, turning his face away from Shiro. Vaguely, he’s reminded of how he first looked when Shiro approached him. Cornered, defensive. Not that he’s seen Keith with anyone else, but Shiro can make an educated guess and say that Keith isn’t the most people friendly person there is. Is he worried about how his friends will react?

“Lance isn’t as bad as I make him sound,” Shiro explains, half truth, “Katie might hassle you though. But I know you, you two will get along. We could probably---”

Shiro flinches when Keith’s chair squeaks back, nearly toppling over from the force at which the man stood up.

“Know me?” He laughs ironically, “you don’t know half of it.” The way his voice drops to a guttural whisper at the end, it makes him look more disheartened,  _ disappointed _ , rather than the angry chained storm he started as. 

“Keith..?”

He can feel himself wither under the man’s gaze. Before he can react, Keith’s grabbing his jacket and throwing it over his shoulders.

“Sorry Shiro. I,” he averts his gaze, “I have somewhere to be. I’ll see you around.”

Keith makes a hasty retreat and by the time the door clicks shut, Shiro is still in his seat, stunned by the sudden quietness of his apartment.  _ What just happened?  _ Without the second presence with him, he’s unsure of what to do with himself. The first thing that comes to mind is to catch up to Keith and fix whatever mistake he made. 

“Keith, wait!”  _ Don’t leave. _

For once he’s thankful that he lives on one of the higher floors in the apartment building. In the hall, there’s no signs of life, and as he makes his way down the building and to the lobby, there’s still no sign of Keith. The man must be incredibly upset if he fled that quickly. Even when he does a quick check of the sidewalk just outside, there’s no familiar red jacket wearing man to be seen. 

He picks up his cell phone to call Keith, but swiping down his small contact list, it hits him that he’s never seen the man carry a cell phone, much less offer his number. With nothing else to do, Shiro trudges back up to his apartment, grabs some instant macaroni from the cupboard and boils some water. 

The little oddities of their little relationship, they made it work, but how long would they be able to keep that unstable foundation steady? There’s too many blanks for him to be comfortable. Keith’s job, where he lives, his friend circle, there’s nothing he knows to fill those gaps. Maybe Keith doesn’t value him enough to share those parts of him, maybe Keith wasn’t as invested in whatever they are as he is. 

Shiro mulls over these thoughts as he grabs his mac, turns the TV onto some nameless documentary, and lays a pillow over his face to muffle his self pitying groan.

#

Keith doesn’t return the next day, nor the day after that. Shiro stops checking at the library after the fourth day, knowing if the man truly was trying to avoid him, he would be smart enough to evade the library. That, and the sight of the dead kid sitting motionless near the steps has become too much for Shiro. In his mind the little disagreement they had wasn’t even that big of a deal, but apparently it was enough to set Keith off into hiding. No matter how many times he replays all their dates, he can’t put together why Keith would be so vehemently opposed to meeting his friends. 

Without his company, his house and his life seem much more empty than they used to be. Or maybe, now that he’s gotten a taste of companionship, his eyes have finally opened a little bit.

Shiro knows from plenty of experience when he’s most likely to fall down the rabbit hole of bad thoughts, so that’s why after the sixth day of radio silence, he makes good on his promise to Hunk and he listens to his lecture on the importance of healthy eating. It’s better than sitting at home binging bad reality TV shows, plus he can finally learn what to do with all the random things in his fridge he marginally remembers getting. 

Right now, Hunk is texting him instructions on making a simple soup, the name flying over his head. His kitchen currently isn’t in flames, nor has anything exploded yet, so Shiro considers the experience a success. Despite that, Keith still hasn’t escaped from his mind completely. As he turns the heat off, Shiro gives in and sends a text back to Hunk.

_ S: can i ask a personal question? _

After transferring the pot off the stove, he hears his phone chime, and opens to see Hunk’s quick response.

_ H: sure. whats on ur mind? _

_ S: have you and shay ever fought before? _

_ H: of course! every couple has at some point _

Shiro breathes a sigh of relief. He knew the answer to his question already, but to hear it from another person helps. When his phone pings again, he looks down to see Hunk’s sent another text.

_ H: wait is this about u and keith??  _

_ H: are u guys having a fight?? _

_ S: i don’t think we did? But he walked out about a week ago and i haven’t seen him around i might’ve said something to upset him i really want to apologize but i don’t know where he is. _

_ S: what if he’s dead? _

_ H: have u tried calling him? _

_ S: he doesn’t have a phone, i think _

_ H: well whatever it is, im sure both of u will work it out _

_ H: idk if you noticed but youve been smiling a lot more lately _

_ H: the next time u see him make it clear u wanna work things out!! I have faith in u dude _

Shiro places his phone down on the counter, taking a deep breath in. Hunk’s a good guy like that, and easy to get along with. But at the same time, he isn’t stagnant, something Shiro would wish could rub off on him. He sends a quick picture of the finished meal, and laughs when Hunk criticizes his bland presentation. Just before he digs in, a heavy knock comes from the door. 

The lightning outside flickers his own lights for a moment, and just as he opens the door, the thunder grumbles, sending more shivers down his spine when his mind finally processes the person standing before him.

Keith, in the same clothes he left in a week ago, sopping wet and looking far too akin to a scraggly stray cat caught in the storm.

“Keith,” Shiro says, unhelpfully. That's all his brain can supply him with, and he doesn't blame it, considering everything.

“Hi,” Keith replies like an actual normal person, “is it okay if I come in?”

The words don’t process in the first few seconds, but once the request snaps into his head, he moves aside to let the smaller man trudge inwards. Keith’s steps leave a water trail into his living room. He frowns, not because of the mess, but because it meant Keith must’ve spent at least an hour in the storm, with barely a proper jacket on.

He knows what he must look like to him. An old threadbare t-shirt with some equally unflattering sweatpants, coupled with an obvious bed head and messy living room, but somehow Keith’s eyes don't roam like they usually do. Instead, his eyes stay locked on Shiro’s own, and maybe that's worse.

Some words go between them unspoken, riding the wave of tense silence.  _ Where were you, why did you leave, why are you here now.  _  The boundaries that once kept them safe, now keep them away from each other, from actually understanding. Desperately, so desperately, he wishes to say something, to finally tell Keith how much worry he’s caused him, to let him know exactly how much pain Shiro has been in for the past week, not knowing where he was, or whether he was coming back. But one look at Keith’s face, eyes hardened and face scrunched up in regret, and that desire is a million miles away. 

It’s obvious Keith didn’t expect a hug, from how his shoulders tense. Regardless, Shiro buries his face into his hair, and places a kiss there, then on his forehead, trailing further down to place butterfly kisses on both his closed eyelids. Keith is here, Keith is  _ real _ . 

“Shiro?” Keith’s eyes flutter open, and god, how he’s missed looking at them. 

“I want to make this work,” he’s surprised at how calm his voice comes out, because on the inside he’s crumbling by the second. Keith’s quiet murmur is the only indication that he heard his words. 

Now Keith’s the one taking his time, never once averting his eyes from Shiro’s face as his hands move from holding Shiro’s arms, to his neck, to gently tracing his jawline which leaves goosebumps on his skin. Eventually, he cups the side of his face with one hand, and the other moves back down to hold his arm. Shiro leans into that warmth touch on instinct. 

“Go sit down,” he ushers Keith backwards, until the back of his knees hit the sofa, “I’ll go get you something to eat.”

He moves to the kitchen to find his lukewarm bowl of soup, and puts it in the microwave to heat. After rummaging through his fridge to find something for the man to drink, he remembers the trail of water Keith left in his wake, and it just clicks that damp clothes are a one way ticket to catching a cold. Shiro heads to his closet in his bedroom and picks up the smallest sweater he has, along with some old pajama bottoms and a towel. When he re-enters the living room, Keith’s curled up on the side of the couch with the television turned on. 

“Oh,” Keith glances at the clothing draped over Shiro’s arm, “thank you, but my clothes are already dry.”

That’s an absurd thing to say, considering he was all but soaked to the bone when he came in, but when Shiro takes a closer look, he’s shocked to see that Keith’s right. His clothes are perfectly dry, no longer clinging to his body like a second skin. Now that he recalls, when he pushed his face into his hair, he was met with a fluffy sensation, rather than a damp one. Even the water trail has completely disappeared. It’s as if Keith was never in the rain.

An awkward cough breaks up his thoughts.

“I can take the sweater,” Keith offers. 

After finally getting him to eat a few spoonfuls of the soup (“It’s good. It  _ is.  _ Don’t look at me like that.”), they spend awhile on the sofa, relaxing in each other’s company. Keith’s tucked into his side, swimming in the sweater Shiro gave him. Hunk’s words echo through his mind.  _ Both of you will work it out _ . He knows sweeping what happened under the rug isn’t right. There are still plenty of things he needs to know. But for at least tonight, he can start out small.

“I was worried, you know,” he says, rubbing Keith’s hand soothingly, “where did you run off to all week?”

Keith pulls away from him slightly, but only moves to sit upright, tugging his knees close to his chest. He doesn’t let go of his hand. 

“That kid who went missing,” Shiro can’t help but tighten his grip on Keith’s hand, but he doesn’t seem to mind, “I think I saw him.”

“What?”

“I’m not certain,” Keith’s face tightens up, averting his gaze from his own, looking down so that his hair shields most of his face away from view, “I was..on a bus, just passing near the closed clothing store down on Juniper, but I’m sure it was the same kid. Could you,” enclosing Shiro’s hand with both of his palms, his voice becomes more determined, “could you tell Allura?”

It’s not an answer to his question. There’s no explanation. Shiro can’t help but be a bit disappointed, maybe worried. Definitely worried. But Keith’s already leaning back into his touch, closing his tired eyes, and Shiro forces those thoughts away for the night, 

#

The station is in much more dissarry than usual. Not that two or three previous visits is enough to make a right judgement of the “usual”. He doesn’t enjoy coming often, for the same reasons he avoids graveyards like the plague. It seems like more solemn spirits tend to hang out the police building, bitter and angry at the force’s failures. For that reason, Shiro tries not to look anyone without a crisp uniform on in the eye. 

He’s sitting across from Allura, waiting for her to finish typing out the last details of Keith’s sighting. Papers lay littered on her little desk, barely leaving any space for her poor succulent and framed photos. The man in that the closest photo, he’s seen him linger over Allura’s shoulder from time to time. His presence is one of the few that actually calms Shiro. Sometimes he wonders what type of father he was. 

“Alright, is that all you have?” Allura asks, stretching her arms above her head. 

“Yeah, that’s all he knew.” 

Her chair makes a pitiful squeak as she lays back. At best, a chair of that quality should last a few years. It's expiration date was probably eons ago, and even he can tell that it's doing no favours for Allura’s back.

“It's like he’s toying with us,” she sighs. She lays out some files that Shiro knows he shouldn't be seeing, but the text is so small and voluminous that he can't process the info anyways. “We were so close on his trail, like he was leading us. But just as we were about to beat him, he swoops away and leaves the corpse like some perverted version of a participation trophy! It’s agonizing, Shiro.”

Any response Shiro thinks of isn't enough to comfort Allura. There isn't much to comfort anyways. Cops aren't perfect, and every officer has a cold case on their back. Allura’s an odd one. After a few years, big eyed rookies harden into seasoned cops, but Allura’s stubbornly clung onto the belief that good can vanquish all evil. The longer she hangs onto that fantasy, the crueler the realization that sometimes the good guys lose will be. 

“You’re doing all you can,” it's not helpful, but it's better than nothing. Allura humours him at least, and gives him a weary smile. 

“Tell your boyfriend to come to me if he finds anything else,” she says, and waves him goodbye.

No one bats an eye when he comes back to the office. Heeding to Keith’s words, he’s told most of his immediate friend circle what he can: that he isn't quite ready yet to face them, but he’s glad that they show interest, and perhaps one day they can get a proper introduction. That last part is wishful thinking on Shiro’s part, but he hopes Keith shares the same sentiment. Mostly, as most gossip does in the workplace, his love life has fallen out of trends, and now people are giving him some breathing room.

In the reflection of his computer screen, he sees Lance approach him from behind. He quickly saves his work and turns around to ask what the man needs, but remains quiet when he sees the unusually somber expression on his face. He waits patiently for Lance to say something, but when the man just stands there uncomfortably, he makes the first move.

“Is everything alright?” Shiro prods gently. 

“Yes,” Lance replies quick, “I’m okay. Wait no,” he shakes his head, “I didn't come here for me. I came here for you.”

“Oh?” Shiro’s not quite sure what he means by that. 

Lance is nervous, or at the very least bothered. He leans on the wall separating his cubicle to the one next over, crossing his arms on himself. The somber look turns into one of discomfort.

“You trust me, right?” he asks. 

“Of course,” Shiro says automatically. It's the truth.

This doesn't satisfy him. His eyes narrow at Shiro, and Shiro tries to not notice how hard Lance is looking into his eyes. What he said was true, he trusts Lance, so he’s not sure what the man would be looking for.

“If you ever need someone to talk to, I’m here for you, Shiro.”

He has no clue where this is coming from. A little part of him thinks Lance may be joking, but Lance isn't budging from his stiff posture. It's only when he gives a solid nod that he loosens a little bit. Giving Shiro a hearty pat on the shoulder, he walks back to his usual place in the break room. 

He doesn't bother Shiro for the rest of the day.

#

It took a lot of effort, but he managed to convince Keith to take it easy and stay the night at his apartment. Per Keith’s insistence, he took residence on the couch instead of the Shiro was very willing to give up for him. He’ll admit, it was slightly jarring to walk into his living room that morning to find Keith in the exact same position he left him in the night before, but now as he rides the subway back home, he doesn't mind the thought of actually having someone to come back to at the end of the day. The subway car is relatively empty, so Shiro lets a giddy smile crawl onto his face.

He opens his apartment door expecting to be greeted by the sight of Keith snoozing off on the couch, but the place feels unusually empty.

“Keith?” There’s nothing but quiet, no footsteps or creaks to alert him of a second body. In the kitchen, the quick omelet he left for him to eat has been covered with saran wrap, otherwise untouched since he left that morning. Keith’s shoes are gone. Panic starts to flood into his senses.  _ He left. He left me again-- _

“Shiro?” 

The sudden voice from behind makes him yelp, and as he turns around, arms raised and ready to defend himself, his mind struggles to keep up and recognize the voice. Face to face, however, he immediately relaxes, and sags in relief.

“You,” he cradles Keith’s face with his hands, letting out a snort as Keith’s squished cheeks force his mouth into a little cute pout, “scared the life out of me.”

This time, Keith’s frown is no longer forced, and he brings his own hands up to remove Shiro’s from his face. The frown is quickly replaced by something he can't decipher.

“Sorry, I was taking a nap in your room. I would've asked, but you kind of offered it to me last night, so...” And then he trods off into the kitchen, trailing off on that thought, and switching to talking about dinner. Shiro walks back to the entrance, and finds Keith’s combat boots laying off to the side. Heading back to the kitchen, the uneaten omelet he thought he saw, upon closer inspection, is actually just an empty plate. Keith turns to him and smiles, none the wiser. He must be losing his mind. But when he opens his bedroom and finds his sheets undisturbed and wrinkle free, he’s really not sure what to think.

Keith’s heated up a bowl of soup from the fridge, and Shiro gently reminds him that he needs to eat as well. They eat quickly, Shiro more so than Keith, who leaves a large portion of his meal uneaten. 

“I think that we should play a game,” Shiro leads in. When Keith looks at him and says nothing, he continues, “You ask me a question, and I'll answer truthfully. And you can do the same to me.”

“So twenty questions.”

“Twenty questions.”

Keith looks ready to argue, but sighs. They  _ both  _ know that it's needed. 

“Okay,” he folds his hands on the table, “what did Allura say about my information?”

“You know that twenty questions is about personal questions, right?”

“Yeah, but I forgot to ask before we started.”

_ Is he stalling?  _ Shiro decides to humour him. “She appreciated the tip, and said that if you find anything else that you should tell her as soon as possible.”

Keith hums, but says nothing more.

As the game goes on and on, the more Shiro begins to see the true unsolvable puzzle that Keith is. With every answer he receives, more questions form in his mind.  _ Where do you live? Close by. Why don’t you have a phone? I've never been up to date with technologies. What do you do for a living?  _ He actually chuckled to that, before replying with,  _ I do what I can to get by. _

Meanwhile, Keith asks more trivial questions.  _ What's your favourite colour? How old are you? Least favourite food?  _ The deeper Shiro tries to delve, the more impersonal Keith’s questions become, as if he’s trying to keep him at arms length. It hurts, if only a little bit. It suits Shiro just fine.

Keith’s abstract picture of a life slowly gains clarity. A man who comes and goes as he pleases around the city, who enjoys the comfort of isolation like Shiro never really learned to. A man, whose flaky tendencies can't land him a stable job, but somehow finds a way to live comfortably, in his own way. A man who, up until recently, found companionship strictly in books. It's a lonely life not too far from Shiro’s own. As different as they can blindingly be sometimes, it’s solitude that brings them together. And maybe it'll be their need for companionship that'll tear them apart.

Sleep eventually takes precedence, and Keith’s quick to clean up, usher Shiro to his bedroom, and send him off with a kiss goodnight before retreating back to the couch. Shiro hangs near his door frame for a moment, considering. He closes the door and presses his back against it. Maybe tomorrow.

#

Tomorrow yields nothing out of the ordinary, nor the next day after that and the day after that. Keith’s finally given into staying at Shiro’s place full time, and he soon hopes that Keith will start bringing some of his belongings over. The only pieces of evidence of a second person living there are a toothbrush beside Shiro’s (newly bought), and the combat boots near the door that seem to disappear if he’s not focusing on them. Shiro wants him to feel as comfy as possible, and if that means a little bit of overtime, then he’ll gladly work as much as possible. 

Keith’s opened up a bit, in his own Keith-esque way. For starters, he’s no longer restrained himself to Shiro’s couch and occasionally Shiro’s bed when he’s not around. Sometimes he’ll find him shuffling through his bookshelf, other times playing some of his old cds (much to his embarrassment. His taste in music has never been top tier). Recently, he’s been coming home to an empty house, only for Keith to either one: come through the door a few moments later, or two: magically pop up behind him, not too differently from a few nights back. Sometimes he doesn’t come back until Shiro’s heading off to bed, and those are the nights he holds him closest. He never says where he goes.

His work life has returned to its usual shenanigans, and he’s not quite sure if he can call that a nice thing. Their poor boss made the horrible decision of trusting the floor to run itself while he goes out for lunch, and that might be the catalyst for the company’s downfall. Matt and Lotor have somehow gotten their grubby hands on two fire extinguishers, and it’s escalated to a wheelie chair race. Shiro can only look on in disbelief as Katie beside him records the whole fiasco, likely for blackmail later. Everyone places bets. Like the good acquaintance and frenemy he is, he places a dollar in for Matt. 

“We’re going to be left in the dust by the Galra if we don’t get back to work,” he says to Katie.

“Bold of you to assume us office workers care,” she laughs back. Matt’s just skidded and wiped out into some poor man’s cubicle, papers flying everywhere. 

Lance has poked the bottom out of a styrofoam cup, using it as a makeshift microphone. He’s shouting out an awfully dramatic play by play of the events, and holding out another cup to stuff everyone’s betting money into. It’s loud, it’s chaotic, but it’s a nice change from the sullen mood he was in when he confronted Shiro. He’s missed the carefree Lance. 

With all the bounding energy around him, he thinks about how much more he’d enjoy it if Keith were with him right now. 

Speaking of Keith. More and more, he’s been asking about the missing children investigations. At first, they watched the news for any updates, but now he’s been asking about Allura personally. When Shiro suggested walking down to meet Allura together, he drew into himself. Still a shy one, he was. So now Shiro’s acting as some form of middleman between them. He takes out his phone to send a text.

_ S: how’s it going with the case?? _

To his surprise, Allura texts back fairly quickly. 

_ A: you know i can’t give specifics. but we haven’t made any significant progress. _

_ A: if you’ve got any more of those “hunches”, please let me knowww!!! _

“Shiro,” Lance snatches his phone from behind him and waves it like a mother chastising a child, “being on your phone doesn’t count as a social activity.” 

He tries to swipe his phone back, but Lance holds the phone away from him, squinting as he reads the name and number he’s been texting.

“I didn’t know you and Allura texted often.”

“Jealous?” While Lance stutters his defense, he manages to take his phone back, with a little victory smirk just for the fun of it. “I have a boyfriend, you know.”

“No need to rub it in dude,” he punches his shoulder good naturedly, and walks off to hand out the winning betters their money. Their little talk from before has been, for the most part, forgotten, mutually unaddressed. He’s fine with that. The only thing that keeps bringing his mind back to that moment are the subtle stares Lance would give him whenever he thinks that he doesn’t notice. But even before then, Lance has always orbited near, always just a short walk away, always open. That open faith and trust in him still confuses him. In his hand, his phone chimes, the specific little chime for when Allura texts him.

_ A: we got something _

_ A: we found some scrap clothing _

_ S: think it might be from the kid? _

_ A: can’t say for certain yet. we have to wait for the dna results to come back, if any at all. _

A loud yell from their eagle eye pulls Shiro’s attention from his phone, and soon everyone is stumbling around to put everything back in place, before the boss climbs all the stairs (somehow, with the entire floor’s collective brain cells, they thought it would be wise to put ‘out of order’ signs on all of the elevators in the building). Shiro, as inconspicuous as possible, moves back into his own cubicle, finishing his own work and blocking out the mayhem of the floor, but not before witnessing Katie shove her bruise covered brother into a closet, telling him to hide before the boss comes and asks how he got injured in the first place. He can’t wait to get back home and relax with Keith.

#

Keith isn’t relaxed at all.

“That’s  _ all _ they’ve got? After this long?” He’s pacing back and forth in front of the couch where Shiro’s sitting. 

“She’s trying her best Keith,” he reaches out to take Keith’s hand, which slows Keith’s pacing enough for him to pull him down onto the couch. His troubled expression doesn't fade, however.

Shiro hides it better, but he’s just as anxious as Keith is. He hasn’t spotted the missing kid yet. Whether that's good or bad is debatable. Seeing Allura in a frenzied state is bad enough on its own. 

“Why are you so invested anyways?”

Keith stills, and he thinks he might’ve offended him, but the look on his face isn't one of anger. It's indecipherable, maybe partly confused. His eyes are far away.

“I don't know,” he says simply. To Shiro or to himself, or a little bit of both, he’s not sure.

On the television, an old family movie comes on, and they spend a little bit watching it together. Shiro would’ve nodded off, but the rhythmic tapping from the hand resting on his thigh kept him from spacing out entirely. Keith doesn't seem to be aware of the small action. From their close proximity, he can feel the gears continuously turning inside the smaller man’s head. Not remembering when he closed his eyes, he opens them when he feels Keith move off the couch.

“I’ll be right back,” he says as he moves to the door and grabs his boots.

“Keith?” Shiro jumps to stand up as well, and his panic must be pretty evident, because Keith’s face softens. He walks back to give Shiro a small kiss on the forehead. 

“I’m just going for a walk to clear my head,” he leans back and looks him in the eye, “I promise. Go rest.” And like that, he’s gone and out of the door, and Shiro’s left alone. Yawning, he goes back to the couch and lays down. Keith has his own set of keys, so there’s no worry in accidentally locking him out. He closes his eyes.

The sound of the television slowly registers again, and Shiro takes a moment to remember where he is. Right, he decided to rest on the couch. The living room is much darker, he notes, as he slowly hauls himself upright and rubs his eyes. Instinctively, he goes to check his phone. Eight forty one pm. He’s been out like a light for about two hours. The numb feeling in his legs make him stagger a bit when he moves to stand. His bed seems like a more comfortable choice, so he starts dragging his way to the bedroom. When his eyes land on the apartment door, it hits him.

Keith.

Keith went out for a walk.

Keith went out for a walk  _ two hours ago. _

Keith went out for a walk  _ two hours ago _ , and still hasn’t returned.

Shiro’s suddenly more awake than he’s ever been, and he’s quick to unlock his phone before throwing it aside onto the couch. Keith doesn’t have a phone. He makes a quick mental note to buy one for him. Just in case, Shiro checks every nook and cranny of the house. Keith is too quiet for his own good. A low rumble from outside catches his attention. It’s an absolute storm outside. 

The situation is all too familiar again, and it’s setting him on edge. Before barging through the door, he rummages around his closet and finds an old umbrella. 

Seeing the rain is one thing, but to be actually standing in it is an entirely different sensation. Even with the umbrella, the wind makes the rain come from a slight angle, stray drops hitting his face. Keith didn’t say where he was walking off to, so Shiro checks the only place that comes to mind. 

Walking to the library was difficult. The wind blew against him, the rain hitting him full speed. The umbrella caught onto the wind occasionally and it would take him a few moments to recover from the blow back. It proved to be all for nothing when he finally made it there, only to find it closed early. He doesn't dare let himself look or think about the ghost child still sitting on the steps.

The water has soaked through his thin sweater, and he tries to suppress a shiver. The shoes he chose in the haste to get out of the house weren’t the best quality either. At this rate, he’ll be drenched to the bone without even the slightest hint about Keith’s whereabouts.

_ I was..on a bus, just passing near the closed clothing store down on Juniper, but I’m sure it was the same kid. _

_ That’s all they’ve got? After this long? _

Shiro can’t think of any other place to check. It’s a long shot, but it’s all he has. Juniper is a brisk five minute walk from the library, and he doesn’t waste any time heading in that direction. The amount of people out and about wasn’t much to begin with due to the rain, but the numbers wade even lower as he approaches the closed clothing store. There’s an industrial stench around the place; it wasn’t such a nice looking area to begin with. Broken bottles and old cigars litter the ground, marking each of his hurried steps with a distinct crackle.

With the beginning of autumn slowly beginning to takeover summer, the sun sets much faster than he anticipated, and now he estimates about half an hour more before he’ll be completely taken over by darkness. From the corner of his eye, there is movement. The quick blur of a person comes from the shadowed alleyway to his right. He can’t see into it even if he squints.

“Keith?” he calls out. 

Neither he nor the person in the alleyway dare to move, allowing the sound of the rain to takeover his senses. Slowly, out of the shadows, emerges familiar dark hair.

Keith’s looking absolutely wrecked. His jacket is much worse off than Shiro’s sweater ( _ has he ever worn anything else? _ ), pretty much rendered useless for retaining heat. His bangs have stuck to his face, water pouring down on him relentlessly. Shiro moves his umbrella to cover him, but it helps him as much as it’s helped Shiro, as to say, extremely little.

“What are you doing all the way out here?”  _ Why didn’t you come back like you promised?  _ “It’s been over an hour!”

He tries to keep his voice down, but the visceral fear and concern spill over like a boiling pot left unattended. And what reason is there to hide it? Keith worried him. Not only did he find him in one of the rougher parts of the city, he found him sopping wet, without a cell phone, and completely defenseless. Who knows what would’ve happened to him once the sun went down. There’s a serial kidnapper on the loose, who could change his m.o. at the drop of a hat. The thought of Keith’s lifeless body dumped in the back of a nameless alleyway is one that he forces away. 

“I found some more info on the missing kid,” Keith explains, conversationally. He tips the umbrella back so that Shiro’s underneath it once more, and steps past him. “I’ll tell you on the way home.”

“Wait--” Shiro’s hand shoots out to grab his wrist. He wasn’t expecting that type of answer anymore, one that answered exactly none of his questions. They’re past this. And he expecting even less for Keith to recoil at his sudden contact, suddenly forcing his arm back into his body. His grip is solid enough to fight against the motion, and it leaves Keith’s hand awkwardly held back between them. There’s red on his hand, and it’s not from his jacket.

It looks bad. Each knuckle is bruised blue, and flaked with dried blood, the colours mixing and layering together like a twisted perversion of a painting. There’s discolouration under his fingernails too, and he’s not sure if it’s dirt or more blood. Shiro’s so thrown off at the sight that Keith’s able to twist his wrist out of his grip, and shoves his hand into his jean pocket. 

Aside from being drenched head to toe in water, Keith objectively looks unharmed. No new bruises, cuts, scrapes. Not a single tear in his clothing, no stray blood or other questionable stains. It honestly looks like someone tore Keith’s hand off and replaced it with the hand of someone who fought a bear. 

Absolutely nothing about the situation is adding up.

“Please,” Keith tries again, “let’s go home.”

“I,” Shiro wants,  _ needs  _ answers, but the way Keith stands motionless, slouched in the rain, not even bothering to shield himself from the elements, makes him look more like a runaway child rather than the grown man he’s used to seeing. “Okay. Just, come here.”

They huddle close together as they wade their way back to the apartment. The umbrella is nothing more than an excuse for Shiro to keep Keith close. Somewhere along the way, they mutually agreed to hold hands, probably more for his own comfort than Keith’s. The rain likely washed away the remaining blood, but it fails to explain the disappearance of the bruises. He must be delirious from the chill. Keith doesn’t say anything about his staring, but he can feel the man stiffen up. 

He reluctantly removes himself from Keith once they make it through the door, and heads off into the bathroom to clean up. In the mirror, the person staring back at him looks at least ten years older from expression alone. The white hair and scars don’t help. This whole day stripped him of half his lifespan. Taking off his wet clothes proved to be troublesome, the feeling of wet fabric peeling off his skin leaving him even colder than he was before. Shiro pulls on a pair of sweats and goes to his bedroom. 

Keith’s already on the left side of the bed, having removed his jacket, boots and socks, turning onto his stomach and raising his head when he enters. It occurs to him that this is the first time Keith’s seen him shirtless. The lights are turned off, at least. He doesn’t know what to do with himself at the door. They’ve shared a bed maybe twice or thrice, but all those times he’s had to usher him onto bed and by the time he wakes every morning, the man is already out of bed, either making breakfast or watching tv on the couch. When he lays down on the bed, Keith nudges him to lay on his side. He feels lean arms wrap themselves around his chest and stomach, pushing them together back to chest. 

Unlike himself, Keith is warm. Very warm. The soft thump of the man’s heartbeat is soothing, a single constant at the end of an impulsive day, He already can feel himself drowsing off, but fights to keep awake. He wants to cherish this moment. Fingers trace every little scar and imperfection on his skin, never lingering, never questioning. Just light curiosity. They’re gone as soon as he feels their tickle. Keith’s steady breaths ground him when a hand moves up to his prosthetic arm, the junction between flesh and metal. He kisses the flesh there. 

Shiro’s not sure if he imagines the soft murmur of an apology, but it’s the last thing on his mind before he goes to dream.

#

The next morning he finds himself back at the police station, sitting in front of Allura once more, though he’d much rather be at home. Even with the extra body heat and blankets, it wasn’t a good idea to sleep shirtless after getting caught in the rain. He woke up cold, coughing, slightly feverish, and miserable. Keith was still in bed that morning, however, which is the only upside he can think of at the moment. 

He would’ve been happy to spend all day in bed with him, if it were not for the man’s insistence of informing Allura. He wasn’t ill enough to be incapacitated, so after writing down some notes on a sheet of paper for Shiro and giving him some cough medicine, Keith pretty much all but kicked him out of his own apartment. 

It was weird, to say the least, waking up to find the man still beside him. The blankets were half on the bed and half on the floor, tangled between their legs. Still stuck stubbornly at his side, Keith didn’t even try to pretend he was asleep, as when Shiro tried removing himself, he clung even harder, like a human octopus. Only when he began to cough did he let go to make sure he was alright. It was a scene he wouldn’t be opposed to waking up to again, minus the cough.

Allura looks less than impressed with his appearance. 

“Did you get caught in the storm last night or something?”

“I did, actually.” Shiro’s voice comes out grainy. 

She doesn’t question further, looking down at the paper he handed to her. Keith wrote a lot of stuff down from what he saw, but his mind had been so fuzzy on the way to the station that he hadn’t bothered to actually read its contents. Allura’s brows furrow more the longer she reads the paper. He doesn’t take this as a good sign. 

Wordlessly, she pulls up some other documents, both paper and digital, and hastily moves her eyes between them and the note. Some typing. Paper shuffling. Aggressive highlights and crossing something out with her pen. Her face lies between confused, and a little bit  _ disturbed _ . Eventually, she slows and eyes him up and down. 

“Shiro,” Allura’s sudden calm was she addresses him is almost enough to give him whiplash, “how has your boyfriend---Keith, right? How’s he been?”

“He’s been okay,” Shiro replies, “we had a…”  _ Disagreement? Relapse?  _ “..little miscommunication last night. Which was how I got caught up in the rain, but we’ve been good. He’s been good.”

“Has he been acting strange recently?”

“Wha--no?”  _ He’s always strange. _

“Does he ever hide things from you?”

_ Plenty of things, but that’s okay, isn’t it?  _ “What does this have to do with anything?”

“Shiro,” Allura lens forward on her elbows, eyes studying him, “how did Keith get this information?”

“He..” He isn’t sure. It slipped his mind earlier to ask for an explanation for Keith’s late night stroll, as did asking how he came across the info he did. He’s not even sure if Keith feels the need to explain himself, as everything he’s done since Shiro’s woken up has been ordinary in intention, and execution. No guilt to be found. None of the shame and worry from last night. “I found him walking alone last night on Juniper. The street where he spotted the missing kid? Maybe he found some things you guys missed.”

It’s a flimsy explanation at best, if you’re to call it one at all. But he didn’t come here to be interrogated, and the headache is not helping his dampening mood. 

“Keith’s information has just allowed me to connect some dots we thought impossible,” she continues, “we’ve released only the sparest of detail to the public. These tips you just gave---they seem to be a bit  _ too  _ on the nose to be found randomly, doesn’t it?”

Shiro mulls over what Allura says, and her insinuation becomes clear. The sudden need to breathe in more air pushes him into another coughing fit. When he finally comes to a stop, Allura starts speaking again in what he now recognizes as a detective’s professional tone.

“Are you sure that Keith doesn’t have any skeletons in the closet that might be relevant to my investigation?”

_ Do they have a suspect? I thought we talked about this. No. Know me? You don’t know half of it. I do what I can to get by. _

No, Keith is many things, but a killer is not one of them. He internally repeats this to himself like a mantra as he looks Allura in the eye.

“Keith would never do that.” He wouldn't.

“You know how this looks, right?” She says. “For both Keith and  _ yourself _ . I want to believe that you’ve only found these things out by pure luck, but with the little rut we’ve gotten ourselves into, you two are pretty much keeping the case afloat.”

“Keith and I aren't connected to the kidnappings and murders,” He manages to say steadily. Allura may be his friend, but she is a detective through and through. Hopefully, his denial will be enough to douse her spark of wrongfully placed suspicion. 

Allura relaxes back into her chair, letting out an exaggerated sigh. He isn’t the only one stressed, it seems. 

“Sorry about that, you know how it is,” she throws him a smile, adjusting her falling bun. Seeing no other reason to stay longer, Shiro gives her a wordless nod, and gets up from his chair to leave. Right before he turns around, however, she says one more thing, “Keith really should come up to the office sometime this Friday. I’d really like to meet him.”

It’s not a suggestion. Although he doesn’t give a verbal confirmation, they both know he heard it.

#

By Keith’s wishes, Shiro calls in sick to work and asks for two days off. In his opinion, it isn’t really necessary, as the worst of the symptoms have already left him. But one stern look from Keith is enough to make him call his boss twice over to be sure. 

Ever since he came back from the police station, he’s been practically bound to the couch, wrapped up in blankets and smothered by pillows. Keith’s brought it upon himself to become something of a hybrid between a nurse and maid, giving him medicine, food, water, even going as far as cleaning the house to get rid of any germs. Somehow he manages to do all these things quietly, enough so that Shiro sleeps most of the first day off, and when he awakens the apartment is absolutely spotless.

Allura’s deduction still hangs like a dark cloud above his head. Whenever Keith his back turned, Shiro stares. He stares for bruises, cuts, blood specks, anything that would be a clear sign of whatever Allura’s accusing him of. And nothing. Not a single wrinkle out of place on his red jacket ( _ has he ever worn something else… _ ). 

Yet. So many things about the man before him don’t add up, murderer or not. He hadn’t really noticed it in the moment, but when they went to bed the night Keith went for a walk in the rain, he hadn’t changed out of his clothes. But somehow, both his clothes and hair were perfectly dry, as if he hadn’t walked into the rain in the first place. That doesn’t even mention the disappearing cuts and wounds on his knuckles. It doesn’t help that there are still some things he omits from Shiro, maybe before wouldn’t have been critical enough to talk about, but now that the word  _ serial killer _ has been planted in his mind, those little details might be the difference between guilty and innocent. All those times he’s gone out without telling him first, those hours would be ample time for someone to kidnap children.

But that smile. That smile of his, so innocent in nature. Shiro can’t will himself to to think of the possibility of that smile hiding something sinister below the surface. 

When the second day comes, Keith finally deems Shiro healthy enough to bury himself underneath the blankets, between all the pillows and Shiro himself.

“Are you sure you should be doing this?” Keith’s hair tickles his nose, causing him to let out a sneeze. “You could catch my cold.”

This doesn’t deter Keith whatsoever. “Mm, that’s not gonna happen.” He immediately finds his place underneath Shiro’s arm, snuggling even closer than he already is. From Shiro’s perspective, all he can see is a mass of black hair trying to become one with himself and the blankets, undeterred by the lack of space.

There’s no way that this man is a killer.

One way or another, they eventually end up putting on a movie, by his choice it’s ‘The Sixth Sense’. His relationship with that movie is dysfunctional to say the least. Before he saw the movie, he’d been utterly disturbed by its synopsis, hitting a little bit too close to home on certain details. Naturally, as self sabotaging as he’s prone to be periodically, he eventually did end up watching it, and now the movie is something of an odd comfort for him. 

Keith had looked a little conflicted during his movie summary, and he had been quick to reassure him that it wasn't a horror movie. 

Nearing the end of the film, Keith unwraps himself from Shiro and gets up from the couch.

“Just going to the bathroom,” he says.

“Hurry or you’ll miss the ending,” Shiro teases. The man returns a smile and saunters out of the living room.

It’s warm under the blankets to the point of it being mildly uncomfortable, so he throws off some of the blankets still covering his form, and in doing so, accidentally drops his phone with a concerning clack. When he picks it back up he’s thankful that there’s no damage, but does notice some new texts that his silent phone hadn’t notified him of. It's from Lance, sent about twenty minutes ago.

_ L: dude ur literally never sick _

_ L: shiro? _

_ L: if u dont answer in the next five minutes im taking the bus and coming over to your place personally _

_ S: i’m fine i’m having a movie night with keith _

_ S: don’t come _

Before he can turn his phone back off and turn his attention back to the movie, an insistent knock comes from the door. His phone chimes.

_ L: too late _

_ L: its britney bitch open up _

The knocking doesn't cease until Shiro gently opens the door, and he finds Lance on the other side, holding a large basket.

“About time,” he sighs dramatically, “I was just about to die of old age out h--”

Shiro cuts him off by covering his mouth with his hand and making the shushing gesture with his other hand. Keith still isn't okay with meeting his friends. If he comes out of the bathroom and sees Lance, Shiro can't predict how he’ll react, but it'll be nothing close to happy. The basket Lance is cradling to his chest looks like a gift basket; from what he can see between the bright blue tissue paper, there’s different sorts of cough medicine, heat pads, face masks, and oils. He can't kick the guy out if he’s put this much effort to help his cold.

“Are you going to scream if I let you go?” Shiro asks.

Lance shakes his head, and keeps true to his promise and stays silent when he takes his hand off. He doesn’t really invite him in, but the man wiggles his way around him and through the door, basket in tow.

“Damn, you really live like this?” Lance whispers rather loudly. He stands in the middle of the living room, craning his head to look around in fascination. This is first time he’s been properly inside Shiro’s home. “It's so messy in here. No wonder you’re sick.”

“What are you--” Shiro doesn't get to finish his sentence when he realizes that Lance is  _ right _ . The place looks incredibly disheveled, more so than he thought. But it looked spotless just moments before. 

That doesn't matter right now. All that matters right now is getting Lance up and out the door, before Keith realizes that there's an unwanted guest in the house. Lance had thrown his shoes off his feet before he walked into the living room, so he bends down to pick them up. Beside Lance’s strewn sneakers are his own dress shoes, and beside those are..nothing. Keith’s combat boots, which had been sitting comfortably beside his, are nowhere to be found. 

The sound of Lance hitting his leg off the coffee table with a muffled string of curse words brings him out of his mind and back to the task at hand. Get Lance out of the house immediately.

“I’m really sorry say this,” he puts himself between Lance and the hallway to the bathroom, “but Keith and I are having an evening in together, and he probably wouldn’t appreciate a surprise visit.”

“Oh right, Keith is here. Where is he? Maybe I should go introduce myself.”

“He’s in the bathroom. I told you already, Keith doesn't want to meet you guys yet.”

“But I’m already here, might as well.”

“We need to respect his wishes.”

They have a stare off for a beat, before Lance looks away first and sighs. 

“You do know partly the reason why I'm so nosy is because I'm worried, yeah?”

There it is. That tone again, that same tone that he used during their conversation of trust. Honestly, no, he didn't think that Lance would be worried for him, seeing that he’s a grown man, thank you very much.

What was there for Lance to worry about in the first place? From an outsider’s perspective, he pretty much has his life in order. A decent job, good work ethic, a nice place on the good side of the city, and now a significant other. There’s no way the other man would know about his more... supernatural problems. 

“I’m sorry, but it's still a no.” Shiro crosses his arms and puffs out his chest, but Lance doesn't cower in the slightest.

“Oh, come on!” When he tries to push his way past, Shiro grabs him by the arm and pulls him back to his spot in front of him. “Would it really kill the guy to meet me? Unless..” A cheshire grin forms on his face, “..you’ve been faking it the whole time?”

Seeing past the ruse to rile him up, he tries dragging Lance out the door, manners be damned, but the man is as slippery as a pool noodle. Thankfully, it doesn't escalate into anything major, but he fails to realize how loud they’ve gotten until he hears the bathroom door open and slam shut, quick footsteps coming closer to the living room.

“Shiro, are you okay--” the words die off in his mouth, and he comes to a staggering still when he sees them. 

If it weren't for the fact that he was personally involved, the sight would likely be comical. Like a husband walking into his wife’s secret affair, his mind supplies unhelpfully. He untangles himself from Lance and gives him a sheepish grin.

“Keith, um,” there’s no good way he can think of to explain, “sorry, he was just about to leave. I didn’t invite him, he just wanted to drop by and give me this gift basket. Isn’t that nice?”

A little too late does he notice that Keith’s attention isn't on him, and rather over his shoulder to Lance. He’s completely frozen up, eyes wide like a deer caught on headlights, face strikingly growling paler by the second. Even with the small distance between them, he can see his fingers trembling slightly, curling into tightly balled fists. Anger, he predicted, but fear? He moves to step closer, but Keith takes a step backward. The silence both in front and behind him are concerning. He turns to Lance, whose face is scrunched up in confusion.

“You should really leave now, Lance,” Shiro pleads.

The man’s eyes move back and forth between him and the hallway Keith has retreated further into. Suddenly, he lets out a laugh. 

“Haha, very funny. You got me,” he says, “now where is he hiding for real?”

“What are you talking about? Keith, I really am sorry--Lance, get out of my house, please.”

Lance’s laughs die down, and he looks at Shiro nervously this time. “It's getting a little creepy now man. Who are you talking to? Are you drunk or something?”

Did Lance hit his head instead of his leg off the table? There’s a heavy wave of tension between the three of them, confusion and wariness added into the mix. He doesn't know what to say, or rather, if there is anything to say at all to Lance’s strange words. If anyone is to be called creepy, it's him, for practically shoving himself into someone else’s home and talking nonsense. 

Then there’s Keith. No longer showing pure terror, but now he’s giving Shiro that look again. Eyebrows turned downward, shadowy grey eyes, and mouth forced into a grimace. He doesn't like it, and he doesn't understand it.

Lance steps forward so that they’re shoulder to shoulder, both looking at Keith. Or rather, in Keith’s direction. Lance’s gaze falls far too high, just above Keith’s head. 

“Shiro, please tell me you’re joking,” he says, “there’s no one standing in that hallway.”

But Keith is right there.

“Shiro, it’s just the two of us here.”

No, Keith is standing in front of them, living and in the flesh---

“Shiro!”

He lets out a startled gasp, feeling Lance’s tight grip on his shoulders, shaking him back into reality. The air feels too cold all of a sudden, yet his lungs feel like they're burning up. He gets it. He understands. He doesn't realize he’s trembling until Lance tries to still him.

Every inch of his body is telling him to run, run, keep running until he’s as far away from Keith as he can be. He forces himself to keep composure. Even with his eyes closed, he can feel Lance’s worried energy, manifesting in the form of a death grip on him.

The television still runs in the midst of his realization, the sound of the ring dropping from Anna’s hands echoing in the silence of the room. He’s tempted to laugh at the awful timing for the movie’s ending.

“I’m drunk,” he forces on a smile, “just thought it’d help the headache, guess not.” For effect, he purposely wobbles as he leads Lance to the door. He’s met with no resistance from the man, even when he abruptly slams the door on him mid sentence on what probably was an offer to stay and help. 

And now he’s alone. 

For who knows what reason, Keith still hasn't disappeared, and when Shiro turns back to him, he’s taken a few tentative steps forward into the harsh lighting of the living room. He stands there, impassive, an incredible contrast from his fear just moments before. It makes sense, in his mind at least. He’s got nothing else to lose.

“Keith,” he wants him to deny it, tell him he’s wrong, that it’s a misunderstanding, but there’s nothing.

“Keith, you’re a  _ ghost _ ?”

#

All hell breaks loose. 

“You’re a ghost. A  _ ghost _ . So what was this then? Some kind of sick fun for you?”

He can’t tell how long he’s been yelling, but going by how sore his throat is, it’s been quite a bit. All those churning emotions he’s kept in for so long have thrust themselves up to the forefront, pouring out in a loud, ugly mess. Many things come out of his mouth, some true, some less true, and some things he says with the intention to hurt, and nothing else.

If any of it gets through to Keith, he doesn't show it. The lack of response only adds fuel to his anger, betrayal, sadness,  _ grief _ . Without his permission, his eyes begin to swell up with tears, and they come too fast for him to wipe away. He’s used up all his adrenaline, and his last words come out muted, tired.

“Did I mean nothing to you?”

“No,” it's the first thing Keith’s said since Lance left. “ _ No _ . You meant something.” He feels a hand brush own, and he can't help but recoil as if burnt. He doesn't try to reach out again. Quieter, Keith speaks, “You mean everything to me.”

As if on cue, Shiro starts coughing. Right, he was still sick. All the emotional turmoil likely made his cold worse than it was before. Keith rummages through the gift basket Lance left behind, and pulls out one of the small containers. He reads over the description before offering it. Shiro doesn’t move to grab it, he doesn’t want to touch him. Keith must sense his distrust, because he gently places it on the coffee table separating them, and gracefully slides it across.

“Take it,” he says, like it’s not obvious from his actions.

Without breaking eye contact, Shiro picks up the small bottle. For sore throats and coughs, instant relief. Take two pills every twelve hours. Opening up the bottle he sees that the pills are barely bigger than his fingernails, so he tries to dry swallow two of them. It backfires, and he goes into another coughing fit. 

Suddenly he’s being handed a glass of water, and he takes it and chugs the whole thing down. The pills slide down much easier, and he doesn’t register the methodical pats on his back until he regains composure. A tissue is handed to him as well. After he finishes blowing into it, a hand takes it away and tosses it into the trash. The soothing weight of Keith’s hand on his back returns. It’s strangely normal. It’s gone as easily as it comes, Keith realizing the contact and removing himself, leaving his hands floating just above where they once rested. 

“Thanks,” Shiro adds lamely, a little late. 

After a little “you’re welcome”, they fall into a tense silence. Where is there to go from here? He tries replaying all his memories from the past month or so with Keith, but everything comes up fuzzy. The emotional fatigue leaves him in need of a long night’s sleep, but he’s had enough waiting. He needs to figure out what to do with all this new information, and he needs to do it now. 

And yet, his body betrays him. 

A yawn comes out before he can stifle it. He doesn’t resist when Keith leads him to the bedroom, throwing himself onto the bed. Shiro takes up the entirety of the right side. When he doesn’t feel a second weight drop in, he opens his eyes. 

Keith stands under the doorframe. The light that trickles in from behind the man gives him a sort of angelic glow. He doesn’t even try to think about the poetic meaning that imagery could have. 

“Stay,” he says.

And so Keith does, turning off the rest of the lights and crawling into bed without another word. He doesn’t get time to settle on his own, as Shiro reaches out and brings him to his chest, tucking his chin on top of the man’s head. 

“Shiro--”

“ _ Don’t _ ,” his voice comes out angrier than he intends, but at this point he doesn't care, “just..don’t.”

Keith stays silent.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he hopes to hurry along the journey to blissful sleep. Maybe all this is some kind of cruel fever dream, a sequence conjured by his own  _ surely _ irrational fears and insecurities about their relationship. It has to be a nightmare, only a nightmare. He tries to focus on the warmth of the body next to him, only to feel nothing. That hurts more than it should. No heat, no steady breaths, no heartbeat. Had he imagined that too? If not for Keith’s hands holding firmly onto his shirt, it'd feel like laying next to a corpse. In a way, he guesses that  _ is  _ the case.

A few stray tears roll down his face and onto the pillow. He muffles a sob, and pushes his face into Keith’s hair. He ignores the way Keith curls in closer, and tries to ignore the pained whimper beneath him and the dampness he can feel growing on his shirt. It’s not real. 

#

When Shiro wakes up the next morning alone, he wonders if it really was all a sick dream. The water and pills on his nightstand tell him otherwise. He doesn't need a mirror to know that there are tear stains on his face, the uncomfortable dryness of and around his eyes is enough to tell him that much. The left side of the bed is vacant, not even a sunken spot left behind. 

From outside the room, he hears the sizzling of oil and the warm smell of bacon. Being ill for the past few days left him starving. His stomach forces him upright and out the door, but not before taking the pills and drinking down all the water. 

In the kitchen, Keith is at the counter, whisking what he can guess are some eggs, as well as frying some bacon in a frying pan on the stove. To his surprise, the man has swapped out his usual outfit with a white tank, that hangs loose on his smaller frame. It takes Shiro a moment to notice it’s his own tank top. The jeans are gone as well, replaced with some over sized basketball shorts that he also recognizes as his own. 

His nose scrunches up in concentration as he pours the eggs into another pan, quietly humming a tune that Shiro’s never heard before. After adjusting the glasses on his nose a few times, he eventually takes them off and hangs them off the tank top. 

The sight is so domestic that Shiro thinks he might cry again. 

Keith notices him hiding around the corner, and for a second they just look at each other. The events of last night seem so far away now that morning has come, like a distant bad memory. He’s shed all his tears, screamed out all he needed to. Now it’s time to finally deal with the situation.

“I’m almost done,” Keith offers, “go sit.”

He pulls out the chair and sits. Although he tries not to, he can’t help but observe the man’s every movement. If he stares long enough, maybe he can see the faint glow that radiates off of Keith. The little perfections of his skin and his hair may have been the first clues to his true nature. The grace with which he carries himself is other worldly, a grace no human would ever have. 

When Keith reaches to open one of the cabinets, Shiro studies the way his hand grasps the handle. If anyone else were in the room with him, would they see the cabinet open on its own? Ghosts aren't supposed to be able to interact with the living world, though he could be wrong. He’s limited his interactions as much as he can, and who's to say there aren't exceptions?    

“I can feel you thinking from here,” Keith’s sudden input startles him out of his pondering, “I wouldn't think about the logistics too much. Believe me, I’ve tried. There's no solid explanation.”

He places a plate filled generously with eggs and bacon in front of him, then takes a seat at the other end of the table. Shiro’s ready to dig in when he notices Keith doesn't have a plate for himself.

“Aren't you going to eat?” He immediately wants to take back those words as soon as they come out of his mouth. “Oh..right.”

The meal is good. It’s exactly what his stomach asked for, and he wastes no time scarfing it all down. Within a few minutes, he’s already finished, and he stares down at the white plate. There are little streaks of oil and bits of bacon left on it, but those could very well be part of the illusion as well. He feels full, though. Ever since Keith started living with him, he’s been responsible for all the meals that get made in the house, though he always insisted that Shiro go shopping for groceries. If all of it had been an illusion, he would've starved weeks ago. 

“I thought I told you to stop thinking so hard,” Keith scolds.

“Well, excuse me for not being able to deal with the fact that my boyfriend is a ghost,” Shiro retorts.

Keith opens his mouth to respond, but just as quickly closes it. He looks defeated.

“We have some things we need to discuss,” he sighs.

_ That _ right there, is probably the understatement of the millennia. Shiro picks at the bacon bits on his plate. Many questions swirl around in his head, becoming a hurricane of thoughts and notions. He silences the storm, grasping for the one question that’s been on his mind since last night. 

“Why?” he stares holes into his plate. “Why me? You said..that I mean something to you.” 

He’s afraid to look up. He’s afraid that if he looks up, he won’t see any of the love he’s grown accustomed to seeing. He’s afraid, that all that affection was just one of the many illusions Keith tricked him into seeing. The sting never comes. 

“Of course you mean something to me,” Keith says, like it’s a simple fact. 

Shiro looks up. 

“Being a ghost, being dead. It fucking  _ sucks _ ,” he lets out a laugh, but it’s not a happy one. “I don’t even know how long it’s been since I was alive, but it’s been long enough that I don’t remember anything from my life.” 

Even with words like this, Keith’s face doesn’t ever change from neutral. That type of acceptance, he knows, can only come from someone who’s had enough time to come to terms with their hurt, their loss. 

“It’s lonely just existing. When you talked to me that day, at the library? That was probably the first time I ever experienced real happiness. You make me so happy, but you also make me so scared. I tried so hard to keep you at arm’s length, but it hurt.”

A smile begins to creep onto Keith’s face, but it’s not a happy one either. “I hurt you.” 

He did. He really did.

Shiro reaches across the table and coaxes Keith to do the same. The man grasps his arm with a touch as light as a feather, afraid of what it means to do so. Like Shiro expects, there is no warmth that comes from his hand, no weight to it. It feels like he’s grasping at nothing, and yet. He needs this touch. The thought of imagining his life again, without Keith, is one he doesn’t want to go back to. 

“Do you want me to go?” Keith asks.

“No,” Shiro means it, “no, you can stay. I  _ want  _ you to stay.”

Keith says nothing, but the way he can feel his hand tighten around his speaks louder than words. 

#

Shiro might be ready to crawl back into bed and sleep away the remaining stress, but the world stops for no one. His two days of leave are over, and most of his symptoms have cleared up anyways. The only real complaint he has is leaving Keith behind, but that is solved fairly quickly.

“I’m invisible to everyone except you,” Keith’s helping him adjust his tie, an unnecessary gesture, but one that lets him graze his hand over his broad chest, “I’ve always wanted to see where you worked.”

The thought of telling Keith his little sixth sense secret never even occurred to him before. it never even was an option he created for himself. Keith knew since the first time they spoke He snorts. Silver linings.

Walking with Keith out in the daylight is an odd experience. For starters, this is first time they’ve been out together while others are around. The street is filled with people going about their day, occasionally bumping shoulders to get around him. By instinct, he wants to reach out and take Keith’s hand, more for his own comfort if he’s being honest. But that would look strange from an outsider’s perspective, so he forces his hand into the pocket of his dress pants.

As if he heard Shiro’s thoughts, Keith wraps an arm around his own. They stay like that for the rest of the way. If anyone notices Shiro leaning slightly more towards his right, they don't call him out on it.

#

Two days. Two days Shiro was gone, and the floor has already crashed and burned. He hopes that the police cars and police tape nearby have nothing to do with his job.

Katie’s the first to notice his presence. The rest of his coworkers are quick to follow, and soon enough there are dozens looking to him like he just told them they were all getting a raise. 

“Thank god,” Katie grabs him by the hand and leads him through the crowd of people, gesturing at the chaos surrounding them, “if you’d showed up any later I would’ve handed in my resignation.”

“What happened?” Shiro sees that both the coffee makers are out of order, and suddenly the empty cans of energy drinks scattered around make more sense. 

“Galra,” she says, like that’s a viable explanation for everything, “they’ve upped their staff, so now their production rates are nearly double what they were. We’ve been working triple time for the past few days just to keep up with the competition. And the police!” she gestures angrily out the window. “Something shitty happened apparently, and now the Galra are claiming we’re somehow responsible.”

Outside, there are two police cars, and a few officers milling about the area taped off. From this high up, he can’t see anything about the area that would give away that a crime happened there, except for a white outline in the shape of a body. A small, child like body. 

Keith beside him grimaces at the same conclusion Shiro’s come to. 

“When did it happen?” he asks.

Katie huffs out a breath of air, the pressure of it briefly blowing her mussed up bangs out of her eyes. “I’ve been functioning on pure caffeine for the past fifty three hours. If you want details, you can go find Allura,  _ after _ you finish those reports over there.” 

His cubicle is just as he left it, and he’s thankful for that small bit of normalcy. A huge stack of unorganized papers gets dumped in front of him, simultaneous with an email notification. He opens it, and there are even more digital files to go through. The amount he’s been dumped with is easily the amount of work of five employees combined. With the unholy amounts of work he sees on Katie’s desk, he keeps his complaints to himself. 

Each page he finishes brings him a little satisfaction, like checking off a box on a to do list. He slips into a work trance, his hands moving on their own accord to type, write, stamp, copy, and print. Getting into this sort of rhythm allows his mind to wander a bit.

He hears bits and pieces of news from his coworkers that walk by his cubicle. The CEO of Galra Incorporated, their rival company, passed away a few weeks back, but news of it only got out now that a new CEO has taken over. A man by the name of Sendak, from a no name town and unnoteworthy background, a favoured employee of Zarkon’s, has boosted the company’s output rate immensely. For a lack of better words, Atlas Incorporated has been left in the dust. 

From the corner of his eye, he can see Keith meandering around. At least the man is feigning mild interest for his surroundings, occasionally choosing to follow around certain people, but eventually coming back to Shiro’s cubicle. The news has troubled them both. 

A head of familiar brown hair appears out of the elevator. 

“And where have you been?” Katie looks up from her own computer screen. “Glad to see you finally showed up to help, Lance.”

Instead of the expected loud retort, Lance instead pins a smile on his face, artificial, very unlike his usual all teeth grins. “Sorry, alarm didn’t go off today. Won’t happen again.”

They let him walk by without another word. Once he’s out of an earshot, Katie mumbles, “The world must be ending for someone like  _ him _ to be in an off mood.”

Shiro has a strong feeling that his subdued demeanor is because of what happened last night. He makes a mental note to make it up to the man somehow. After all, he only wanted to help Shiro, and he was thanked with a little freak out and a door slammed in his face. 

Some more time passes without incident. The mountain of papers has dwindled down to a small stack, some people hovering around his cubicle to watch his speed. Truly, he’s the only reason the floor hasn’t completely collapsed. When Katie succumbs to sleep, passing out face down on her desk, he drapes his suit jacket over her smaller body, and takes the remainder of her work off her hands by the goodness of his heart.

Still, the restlessness from before doesn’t escape him, and it doesn’t escape Keith either, who’s currently perched on the empty side of his desk, fiddling with his hands. He looks at the time. Twenty minutes past noon. A good time for a break. He stands, side eyes Keith carefully, and once he’s sure his message has been received, walks as casually as he can to the furthest bathroom. He doesn’t have to look behind him to know that Keith is following. 

Luckily, the bathroom is empty, but even so he checks each stall to be sure. Now, with the new information that Keith’s a ghost, you’d think he’d get used to the man randomly materializing in front him. That would be an incorrect assumption. It doesn’t help that Keith materializes just inches away from him, so when he turns away from the last stall he’s met face to face with him. He leaps back, back slamming into the stall door. 

“Are you trying to give me a heart attack? Jesus,” he places a hand over his heart.

Keith, now that he’s free to rant, paces madly back and forth across the bathroom.

“That serial killer is  _ still  _ on this loose,” he grumbles. 

Shiro lets him release some steam, picking at a loose thread on his dress sleeve. The lack of progress certainly irks him as well, but not to the extent Keith has shown him. In the clinical lighting of the room, he sees his reflection in the mirrors, His face has certainly seen better days, his pale complexion and the dark circles under his eyes being the remnants of his cold. When Keith passes by the mirrors, there is no reflection that matches his step. The hard steps he takes are not accompanied with the tap of shoes, nor is there a dark shadow trailing behind him. The lack of those minuscule details leaves Keith somewhere in the uncanny valley, like an illusion.

Sometime during Shiro’s sick days, the body of the child was found near the building. During those two days, Keith stayed inside the apartment with him, though, he was unconscious for most of day one, so he couldn’t say for certain. The time of death and the time the body was discovered could be vastly different as well. 

Even with the missing bits of information, he finds the idea of Keith being the killer ridiculous. But Allura, she found something fishy. But she didn’t take into account that he’s a ghost, and a ghost has a couple advantages over a living person when it comes to snooping. But she’s a detective, trained to figure puzzles out. The conflicting notions make his head pound. 

“Keith,” the man perks his head up from where he was glaring holes into the floor, “Allura thinks you might have something to do with the murders.”

“Me?” he scoffs, “What would I have to gain from doing this? If that’s the best hypothesis that she can come up with, then I can see why no progress has been made so far.”

“Hey,” Shiro warns, “be nice. To be fair, from her point of view, you’ve been acting really sketchy. You’ve refused to see her face to face, after all.”

Which reminds him, today is Friday. Allura expects Keith to show up today, or else she might start focusing her energy on seeking him out due to some misunderstandings. 

“How are we going to prove our innocence?” He sighs. Keith raises an eyebrow, and he quickly elaborates. “Allura’s suspicious of me as well. She told me to bring you in today so that she could meet you in person.”

His voice echoes slightly off the walls. They fall into a heavy silence, both thinking. The obvious choice hangs over both of them, but Shiro’s thankful that Keith doesn’t voice it. The man looks at him, however, likely gauging his expressions, trying to guess how he feels about it. 

Never in his life has he told another soul about his ability to see ghosts, nor has the thought ever fluttered through his mind. Vaguely, dull pain pulses through his right arm, ending just above his elbow where the prosthetic replaces flesh. He clenches the fist, numbing the pain back into non existence. Every other plan he thinks of ends horribly in his head. There is no other option.

“We have to tell her,” he voices out loud as an afterthought, already knowing Keith came to the same conclusion much earlier than he did. “Lance too. I know I didn’t fool him last night with my drunk act. Might as well tell him the truth before he tries playing detective.”

Keith wraps him in a light hug, testing. He pulls him in as close as he can, the touch calming his rising nerves. 

“I’ll be right there with you,” he says, before pressing a kiss on the corner of his mouth. 

#

Finding Lance is easy enough. He finds him at one of the printers and asks if he wants to grab lunch together. The man is uncharacteristically quiet in his agreement, and that by itself puts Shiro on edge. Lance is never that compliant on a normal day, though today’s madness could barely be considered normal.

Allura, ever good with her timing, comes up to the floor with a few other officers. Convincing her to take a break takes a little more effort.

Katie wasn’t kidding when she said their company was being accused of the crime. 

“However outrageous Sendak’s claims may be, we’ve been ordered to do a sweep anyways,” she explains, “there are at least five more floors the other officers and I need to check out, I can’t afford to take a break now.”

“It’s about Keith,” he says, and Allura stops in her tracks. She eyes him critically, and he lets her, knowing that she won’t find any deceit in his face. Turning to the other officers with her, she tells them to continue without her, much to their disdain, but they’re already moving into the elevator. Lance opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out. 

At least with Allura with them now, Lance’s demeanor shifts towards something more familiar. Shiro lets him try to converse with the officer, amused at his attempts at conversation. With anyone else, Lance is annoyingly likable, kind of like a cat that knocks over all your stuff while looking deceptively charming all at once. But if Allura comes within five meters of his vicinity, he transforms into an awkward stuttering mush. If he wasn’t so busy trying to cover up his mistakes, he’d see how Allura lets herself smile more in his presence. 

That’s partly the reason why when they take their seats outside a nearby cafe, Shiro makes sure to take up as much a space as he can on his side of the table, so that the two ending up sitting next to each other adjacent from him. Partly, also, to give Keith a space to sit beside him and inconspicuously take his hand. He gives a reassuring squeeze.

Shiro decides to pay for all of them, not that the three of them have much appetite in the first place. Collectively, they order an espresso, a latte, and chamomile tea. After the waitress leaves, Allura and Lance look at him. He doesn’t even know where to begin. The details weren’t exactly smoothed out beforehand, nor was outlining what was important to say and what was best left omitted. Allura speaks first. 

“Is Keith going to come soon?” she asks impatiently. Beside her, Lance is visibly uncomfortable by the subject, no doubt remembering the night before. Dark blue eyes meet his own dark brown.  

“No, he’s…” he can feel his hand begin to tremble, Keith brushing his thumb methodically over each of his knuckles. Not wanting to turn his head, he tries to view the man from the corner of his eye. He catches his gaze.

“Just start from the beginning,” Keith suggests.

Taking in a deep breath to steady himself, he returns his attention to the pair sitting in front of him, waiting. Watching.

“Let me start from the beginning,” Shiro echoes. 

And so he does. He leaves no detail out of the events over the past nearly two months, four if you take into account the time he spent just watching Keith in his corner of the library. Retelling his experiences becomes much easier the longer he goes on, the words flowing out like an calm river. At some points, he feels Keith’s grip on his hand tighten, those certain parts still raw in both their minds. Especially when he recalls seeing the bruises on his knuckles. That makes Keith retract his hand entirely, later returning once Shiro comes to the events of the night before.

For most of his explanation, he’s avoided looking Lance and Allura in the face, instead down on the gray table in front of him. Once the words ‘ghost’ and ‘sixth sense’ passes his lips, he dares to peek at their reactions.

Like the detective she is, Allura’s face is deceptively passive, waiting for him to conclude his explanation before commenting. The slight twitch of her brow doesn't escape his notice. Lance on the other hand, has become so pale that he’s afraid the man might pass out. He’s forced his mouth into a fine line, a disturbed grimace. 

The waitress arrives to hand them their drinks, and sensing the atmosphere, scurries off. 

Shiro ends right before the morning after. They don't need to know about that. 

“That was... an interesting story,” Allura says carefully, “but surely you realize how absurd it sounds?”

Shiro grits his teeth. This is exactly what he was afraid of. “I’m telling nothing but the truth.” 

The gears turn in his head, trying to think of some way to prove what he says. Keith nudges him, and a wave catches his attention. Allura’s father stands behind her, waving at Shiro. He then points to himself. He speaks, for the first time, for Shiro’s ears only. 

“I can prove it,” he takes his cup of tea, pressing his palms against the delicate cup, feeling the warmth of it. “Your father, his name was Alfor.”

From the past few years he’s known Allura, she has never spoken once of her father, much less by name. It had become pretty much an unspoken rule to never breach the subject. From the way she bristles, he knows he’s hit a sensitive spot. Against his own conscience telling him to back off, he continues.

“You told him you wanted to be a police officer when you were in your junior year. You two had a small fight over it, but ultimately he chose to support you. The guilt never left you, though, did it?”

Allura’s eyes narrow dangerously.

“He knew you felt guilty, and that was probably the biggest regret of his, not being able to tell you he was proud. That night, he was on his way to properly sit down with you and talk things out, but he didn't notice the speeding car that ignored the red light--”

Dark liquid quickly spreads across the table, spilled from the cups, all of which now nothing more than jagged shards of ceramic on the ground. Allura has one hand curled around his black tie, forcing himself to lean over into her space. Her eyes hold immense anger. The only reason she hasn't punched him in the face is Lance, who’s barely holding her back by her torso. Keith is in a similar position beside him, though his is much less effective.

“How dare you,” she speaks lowly, making her much more intimidating, like a predator about to jump. 

Luckily, Lance senses this too, and tries harder to pry Allura away. He stumbles back when she suddenly complies, smoothing out her uniform, giving him one last glare before she swiftly exits the cafe.

He’s quick to notice the audience to their little display, and one sharp look is enough to get the cafe moving again. Alfor, surprisingly, didn't follow Allura out. The ghost gives him a sheepish grin in apology, before taking his leave as well.

All Shiro succeeded in doing was pissing Allura off, which is the sure fire way to get himself arrested. Hell, she might just toss him in jail herself. 

“That kid,” Lance starts, “I overheard some of the officers. The kid was killed last night. I already told Allura you were in your apartment when I visited you around that time frame. You have a solid alibi, and she knows it.”

“How..?”

“You’re not the only one she talks to.”

Shiro adjusts his foot, and in doing so feels the squelch of the puddle of coffee. He remembers the huge mess that they made on the table, and grabs some of the napkins to wipe it with. The waitress that comes with a mop grumbles at them to step aside. He makes sure to leave a huge tip.

Once they step outside, Shiro checks his watch. They’ll be late back to the office, even if they sprint, so Shiro takes some time to inspect the coffee stains on his shirt and trousers. The splotches are huge, erasing any hope he had of saving them. 

“At least you have lots of spares at home,” Keith shrugs.

Shiro eyes him lazily. “I guess,” he replies absentmindedly. A cough from his left reminds him he isn't alone.

“Has,” Lance stutters on his breath, “has Keith been with us this whole time?”

“Yes,” there was no reason to lie at this point, “I was going to introduce him before--all that.”

He hums in response, bringing his thumb and finger to his chin, something Shiro’s noticed he does when he’s thinking. The man is looking at Keith--almost at Keith, he’s still looking a little bit too high. “What does he look like?”

The question comes out of nowhere, though maybe Lance is trying his hardest to accept Shiro’s word by humanizing Keith. He’ll indulge.

“Well firstly, you’re looking a bit too high,” he puts one hand on top of Keith’s head, the other hovering at Keith’s eyeline. “His eyes are down here. If I’m being completely honest, he kind of looks like a punk, with the long black hair and perma-scowl.” He avoids the man’s attempts at slapping him. “But he’s also got these eyes, kinda gray, kinda blue. Can’t really explain it.” 

The sight of Keith lighting up like a red stop light is completely worth the minor embarrassment on his part of saying these things out loud. Aware of how awkward Lance might feel, he turns back to him to apologize, but the look of pure horror on his face takes him off guard. 

“Are you alright?” Shiro tries moving towards him, but Lance takes a few steps away, putting distance between them. 

“Yeah, yeah I’m good,” Lance shows off his fake smile again, “I just thought I left the stove on at home, but I remember turning it off! No worry there.” Stepping closer to Shiro, he casually bumps their shoulders. “We should get going before Katie accuses us of ditching. She’s like that,” he nods in Keith’s direction. 

When they walk, Shiro can’t help but notice the way Lance’s face falls, and his insistence on walking on Shiro’s right, opposite to Keith. 

#  
  


Shiro’s never been so thankful to be back home. 

Over the past few days since the cafe incident, the game of catch up in the office has only gotten worse. No extra breaks, no time nor space to even breathe, as most of his desk is buried underneath papers and folders and cups of coffee alike. He’s never thought of himself as an old man before until he caught himself complaining about his lower back. The amusement on Keith’s face wasn’t enough compensation.

Allura apologized through the phone for her behaviour, albeit awkwardly. It felt less like an apology and more of a plea to move on and never speak of the incident again, but Shiro pretty much felt the same, so he decided to not call her out on it. After she told him to tell Keith to continue gathering any information he can, they both said their goodbyes and ended the call. Shiro wonders if the weird tension between them will ever dissipate. 

Not that any of those concerns are on the forefront of his mind at the moment. Since he’s been coming home haggard, he and Keith spend most of their time just laying in bed together, basking in the other’s presence. 

Without the weird barrier Keith put between them before, the house feels so much lighter. Keith smiles much more now, truly smiles. He’s made it a habit to wear Shiro’s clothing around the house instead of the usual get up Shiro’s now sure he’s never seen the man without. If he notices Keith hoarding most of his sweaters and hoodies, he doesn’t say anything about it. 

They still have their fair share of bad days, days where he forgets that Keith is on an entirely different plane of existence. Those days, he slips up and grabs two plates at dinner instead of one, two cups of coffee instead of one, forgets that Keith doesn’t need to breathe like he does. Those days are a painful reminder to him at how fragile things are still, no matter how peaceful they are at the moment. 

And yet, he can’t find it in himself to care too much. 

Laying down on the bed, he’s tracing a finger up and down Keith’s upper back. It’s an innocent gesture. Ever since he lay eyes on the man, he’s always wondered what those muscles would feel like under his touch. He feels nothing, but the way his finger dips and elevates over the lean muscle is entrancing all the same. The smaller man curls further towards him, huddling close.

The bump of Keith’s shoulder blades catch his attention. He can feel them under that loosely fitting tank top, protruding out slightly. He voices his thoughts out loud before he can stop himself.

“They’re like little angel wings.”

Instinctively, he feels like he’s said something wrong when Keith stills. But the man only moves back a little bit, so that he can clearly see his face. It’s that same defeated expression he saw when Keith described his lonely life. Grudging acceptance.

“I wish I had the real deal.”

After the morning he found out Keith was a ghost, Keith’s rarely spoken about his feelings on the matter. Shiro doesn’t push him to, but his comment sparked something in the man. 

“When there’s no guarantee that you’ll get out of this purgatory, ghosts tend to go mad. You must’ve seen them, right? They just scream. They don’t stop screaming even if you ask them to.” Shiro knows. He knows too well. It’s the reason he was an insomniac for most of his early life, before he taught himself to block them out. “Shiro, I--I didn’t want to be like that. Useless, angry, and hurting.”

He pushes Keith’s bangs away from his forehead, revealing more of his face than Shiro’s used to seeing. Without the hair in the way, he looks younger, almost childlike.

“I think that’s why I started fixating,” Keith continues, “things like reading books, walking through forests, being with you.” He quickly looks up at Shiro before looking back down at his chest. “And now the case. At least now, I’ll my fixation will help others too.”

It’s selfless. He’s always been selfless, Shiro thinks. He’d been worried about hurting Shiro, so he tried his damn hardest to keep him at arm’s length. He’d been worried about burning Shiro, when he himself was engulfed in flames.

There’s pressure on his prosthetic arm, and he realizes Keith is holding it tight. The man doesn’t seem to be aware of his actions, eyes far away, probably thinking of nothing good. He pulls the arm out of his grip, bringing Keith back from his trance, and intertwines their fingers together. The silver shine of his hand dwarfs the man’s own. 

“Have you ever wondered about this arm? The scars?”

He shakes his head in reply.

“I didn’t want to pry,” Keith says.

Shiro’s never told a living soul the true story behind his appearance, nor does he have the intention to. He still doesn’t.

“My parents thought it was because of an overactive imagination that I couldn’t sleep,” he explains, “they thought it was just the usual ‘monsters under the bed’ thing. Couldn’t really blame them. I don’t think a seven year old’s vocabulary is extensive enough to describe how scary it is to hear the cries of ghosts day and night.”

How horrible it must have been for his parents, both new to parenthood, to have dealt with a kid who was afraid of his own shadow. He’d be lying if he said he never once resented them for their ignorance. The disconnect between them festered and stayed through his teen years, ultimately leaving him with nothing to say to them when he moved out. 

“It drove me crazy. When I was eleven, I tried running away from the screams, and I didn’t realize I had run into a busy street until I heard tires screeching, and..” he trails off there, knowing Keith has already connected the dots. His eyes haven’t left the prosthetic throughout his story. “After getting fitted for my new arm, I started teaching myself to ignore the worse ones, and help those I can.”

He feels an odd sensation on his prosthetic fingertips, and it takes a moment to register the feeling as Keith’s lips pressing against each individual digit. 

People, in his experience, don’t usually do things out of pure intent to harm. Some are admittedly closer to the gray area than others, but he’s yet to meet someone who acts without consideration. When he notices people stare at his prosthetic, or avoid any and all cases of looking at his right side, he reminds himself of this fact. 

This is the first time someone’s held his arm with such warmth, he thinks.

“You’re strong, Shiro,” he says between kisses, “you’re so unbelievably strong.”

_ No, _ he wants to say, _ it’s you who is strong, so much beyond the meaning of the word. _

When sleep takes over his form, he dreams of Keith, young, bold and alive, a fuzzy, formless death, and the most beautiful angel wings he’s ever seen.

#

“Yo Shiro, you free this weekend?”

Shiro had tried his best to find a quiet place to eat his sandwich, away from his coworkers, away from his bosses especially, so when someone swings the storage room door open, you can’t blame him for wanting to hide away. He recognizes the voice as Lance, however, so he stays in place, letting the man into the small room. 

He’s not sure what to make of Lance. He’d accepted Shiro’s truth easily, almost too easily for him to believe. Not only did he believe it, he pretty much embraced it, asking about Keith every time they’re left alone together. Nothing alarming, simple questions that could be taken as small talk, but are just a little too specific to be taken at face value. It’s Lance, naturally nosy Lance, so he lets it slide. 

“Keith and I have nothing planned,” he replies honestly.

“Cool, so do you wanna come with me on a trip then? It’s nothing big, I’m just headed to the next town over, but I’d appreciate some company.” Before Shiro can respond, he quickly adds, “Keith should come too.”

He’s never actually asked if Keith’s been out of the city before. Thinking back, they’ve never had a proper day out together, much less a trip. The man might like the change of scenery, considering he’s confined himself to their apartment, only going out to scout for anything that can help the case. They’re both in need of some relaxation.

“We’d love to come,” Shiro says.

Lance gives him a solid nod, before closing the door and leaving him in peace and quiet once more. It only lasts for a couple of minutes before his watch reminds him to get back to work.

#

After the Nyma incident, Lance had been reluctant to ask for Allura’s help in tracking down the car, though through the joint effort of Lotor and Matt, she heard about it anyways. She found Nyma much faster than any of them had expected, personally returning the car to him, without a single dent. 

The three of them are in that same car now, Lance driving, Shiro in shotgun, and Keith taking up the entire backseat. When he fusses about seatbelt safety, Lance and Keith both laugh at him. He doesn’t speak to either of them for a solid five minutes, before a laugh bubbles out of him too. 

Soft music plays from the old fashioned car radio, mellow and thoughtful, unlike the fast paced pop songs he expected. He’s had his expectations turned over by Lance a lot lately. With the music, none of them feel the need to speak, letting the car fall into an easy quiet. 

Although he’d consider the man a friend, he didn’t think they were close enough to take trips together. That seemed more of a Lance and Hunk thing, or even a Lance and Katie thing. Regardless, he’s touched by the man’s constant care for him. 

From the rear-view mirror, he sees Keith’s rapt attention on the moving world outside the car window. He’s rolled the window down a little, letting the steady stream of wind dance in his hair. Those eyes, those eyes that captured him since the very beginning, look on in wonder at the endless fields around them. Going on this trip was a good decision, he thinks. 

When Lance had said they’d be going to the next town over, Shiro didn’t think he meant a town as small as the one they arrive into. The car slows down when they enter the main road, the only road it looks like, in the town. 

Tiny, locally owned stores line either side of the worn out road. A lot of the buildings look old, yet well kept, despite the faded paints. The only people he’s spotted so far are older folk and the occasional young child, likely grandchildren. When they pass, heads turn and stare. The town probably doesn’t get much new visitors. 

Lance parks the car in an empty parking lot, and all he and Keith get out of the car. Lance’s eyes don’t leave Keith’s car door as he opens it and slams it shut. It probably looks odd from his point of view, lack of sixth sense and all that. 

“This is the town I grew up in,” Lance takes a deep breath of air, taking in the old fashioned scent of the breeze, “I haven’t been here in ages.”

“You were raised here?” The thought made him smile a little bit, imagining a younger Lance running around and wreaking havoc.

“I still remember most of the shops,” he grins, breaking into a brisk walk. “C’mon, I’ll show you two around!”

_ You two _ . Keith’s been bouncing his leg non stop since they’ve stepped out of the car, and doesn’t bother to wait for Shiro as he jogs to catch up to Lance. Not wanting to be left behind, he shakes his head fondly and runs after them.

Each shop they enter has the same response, first a polite greeting, then when they recognize Lance the store owners and customers alike break into excited and animated conversation. It’s a sight to see, short and sunkissed grannies picking him up without a sweat, old men hitting him hard on the back and letting out belly laughs. He goes on mostly unnoticed, quick hellos before Lance takes the spotlight. 

The shops are so different from each other, it becomes a game for him and Keith to guess what the next one will be like. Some are just little convenience stores, others are like stepping into an entirely different world, ones of lush greens and hardcover books without names. He’s worried the small spaces and loud voices would startle Keith, but the man is entranced.

He runs his fingers over the shelves, the dust undisturbed. It’s not unusual for him to see the man lost in thought, but he has to nudge Keith back to reality a few too many times. Each instance, Keith says the same thing.

“It’s just really nice here,” he breathes out.

And it is. 

The only people that pay them more mind than just a quick glance are the few children they bump into. At first, the kids would only stare at Shiro, but he swears that he feels the eyes on his prosthetic. Self consciously, he pulls his sweater sleeve further down. The worry proves to be short lived, however, as he soon finds himself becoming a walking jungle gym. 

“Lance, can you--ow ow ow, please don’t pull on that Samantha--” the little girl somehow hoisted herself onto his shoulders, and finds it entertaining to fiddle with his hair, “ _ Lance _ .”

“Nope,” he’s also over run by a couple of rowdy kids, handling them with more ease than Shiro does, “this is your life now. Accept it.”

He accepts it, if only for Keith, who’s on the ground laughing harder than he’s ever seen. 

#

One thing lead to another, and now the sun’s low in the sky, turning the town into a picture of yellow and orange hues. An older woman by the name of Wendy had invited them to lunch, and that lunch turned into a dinner. Shiro’s never eaten so much food. 

“We should head back soon if we want to get back before midnight,” that, and the fact that if they spend any more time walking he’ll start to get cramps.

“Hold on,” Lance moves to the front, leading them, “I wanna go visit one more place.”

Not seeing any real reason to stop his fun, Shiro complies. 

They walk down a road that’s considerably more run down than the rest of the town’s, loose rock and gravel rolling under his shoes. There’s a building in the distance. He recognizes it as a school, a high school from the peeling paint of a lion mascot. A large chain surrounding the building stops them from entering. Upon closer inspection, he sees that the building has been abandoned. The no entry sign tells him it’s been this way for a while.

“Is Keith still with us?” Lance asks.

“Yeah,” he replies, looking over to Keith, whose eyes are locked on the lion mascot.

Without another word, Lance jumps the chains. 

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” Shiro warns. His worry falls on deaf ears, only the sound of the chains jingling, a taunt. He expected Lance to ignore him, but Keith’s quick to walk right through the chains and warning sign as well.

“Keith,” he whines. 

He grabs the man’s hand, trying to sway him to stay back. Without taking his eyes off the building, Keith speaks.

“I want to go in there, Shiro. I feel--I feel like it’s calling to me.”

Distantly, their conversation about his fixations plays through his mind. He lets Keith drag him into the building.

Aside from the chains, there’s no barricade preventing them from opening the main doors and waltzing right in. The air feels incredibly stale. No one has entered the building for ages. If it were night time, the empty hallways and fallen posters would be and eerie sight, but due to the warm light shining through the cracked windows, it gives off more of a whimsical vibe, like a place stuck in time.

For a town so small, the school is spacious. The large gym and cafeteria suggest a high populace once upon a better time.

“I take it you used to go here?” he asks Lance.

“Yep, from freshman to senior year,” he explains, stepping on some broken glass, “the place was overflowing with students before..” 

Shiro looks up from the water fountain he was inspecting when Lance doesn’t finish his sentence.

“Before..” he coughs, “before nothing.”

He starts walking away with more purpose and direction, and Shiro follows closely behind, not wanting to be alone among the empty lockers.

Ever since they entered the building, Lance has been quiet, not the peaceful quiet like in the car, but a churning quiet, a quiet before the storm. What the storm entails, he’s not sure. 

Where they’re lead to is an indoor pool. He’s surprised by the sheer size and depth of the empty space. It’s a sad sight to see in all honesty, because he can imagine the place buzzing with life. Now, it’s left deserted, mold covering the nooks and crannies with an overlay of dust. 

There are pictures on the walls, organized chronologically. The first photo is a yellowed one, taken in 1972 from its caption. It’s a group photo, a team of boys and girls in their swimsuits, medals hanging from their necks, though he can’t tell whether it’s a gold or a bronze from the discolouration. The rest follow a similar motif, becoming more modern and modern.

Keith is, expectedly, very intrigued by the photos. 

“Hey Lance,” he calls out, the thought coming to the forefront now that he has space to think, “why did you believe me so easily when I told you about my sixth sense? And Keith?”

He doesn’t respond right away, stopping at the very end of the line of photos, staring at what Shiro guesses to be the most recent one. 

“It was easy,” he says, “I believed you because you were telling the truth. I know Keith is real.”

The words bounce around in his head, not really comprehending the weight of them until he’s standing next to Lance, his breath stolen away by the photo.

There, in the group of boys and girls, is Lance, scrawnier and shorter than the others, face caught in an awkward grin. And in the right corner, lanky, pale, arms crossed and wearing swimming trunks a few sizes too big, is  _ Keith _ .

#

“He wasn’t an actual member of the swim club. Miss Sanda forced him to join us, even though he’d never taken swimming lessons in his life.”

Lance’s explanation feels so far away from him right now.  _ Keith _ . The face is more rounded out, body soft and petite where he’s now filled out and lean, but it’s undeniably Keith. The year under the photo is from six years ago. Between Keith and the rest of the high school students is a gap, not too big to be glaringly obvious, but if one were looking closely, they could see how the kid nearest to him squares his shoulders away, boxing him out from the rest of the team. Keith is leaning away from the rest of them regardless. 

Keith beside him is troubled, rubbing a thumb over his photo, while his other hand moves up to his jaw, comparing himself to the younger’s look. He grows more frustrated the longer he stares.

“I don’t remember this,” his brows furrow, removing both his hands to massage his temples, as if he has a headache, “I don’t remember any of it.”

There isn’t much he can think of to do, so he just places his hand on his shoulder, grounding him. He catches the end of what Lance is saying.

“--he’d progressed much faster than any of us expected, but he was still far away from ever competing.”

“Shiro,” Keith turns to him, eyes clouded, “ask Lance to take us out to the back.”

He’s about to ask why, but stops. Keith’s face is tense, confused. The bombshell must weigh heavy on him. 

“Lance,” the man stops mid-sentence on what sounded like an anecdote, “Keith wants to go out to the back.”

A smile, an odd smile, appears on his face, like he’d been expecting them to ask that. 

They walk out to the overgrown field, the sun close to fully setting, the skies now turning a muted blue. It will be nightfall soon. Bordering the field are a bunch of trees, towering over them, shadows casting almost threatening shapes. He hopes he’s just imagining the constant hiss around them. Lance leads the way, though Keith walks right beside him, almost taking the lead. His body must be reacting to the familiar place. 

Up a large hill and through some thick foliage, Shiro now recognizes the hissing sound as the sound of a rapid river. Lance hesitates in his pace when the river comes into full view, but then takes a swift turn to the left, stepping onto an old wooden bridge that looks like it’ll crumble at even the smallest gust of wind. 

Shiro’s reluctant to get onto the bridge, as is Keith, from the tremble of his hands. He hasn’t stopped rubbing his knuckles since they’ve walked out, and he’s worried that the man hurt himself on some broken glass, ghost logic be damned. Bravely, Keith steps onto the bridge, and he follows behind.

He can  _ feel _ each wooden board move with the rapids, a creak with each step he takes. Keith doesn’t have that concern.

“Do you remember the day I tried talking to you here?” Shiro’s confused by the question before he realizes it isn’t directed at him. 

“I wanted to tell you that I was a better swimmer than you,” Lance continues, undeterred by the lack of a verbal response, “but I got nervous and I chickened out last minute. I tried hiding on the other side of the hill but I was so sure that you saw me.”

Shiro can see Keith’s frozen up, soaking in every word he’s saying, a hand coming up to his temple again. 

“That’s what I regret most, you know. Never talking to you. Never got the chance to, since you had to go and die,” his voice cracks at the end, face crumpling in hurt. “You didn’t even give us a chance to say goodbye.”

When Keith doubles over in pain, Shiro moves to catch his fall. It’s from his head, from the way he’s cradling it. 

“I don’t remember!” he cries out, “I don’t remember, I don’t remember, I don’t--” he continues babbling it, but Shiro’s the only one who can hear. He’s shaking like a leaf in his arms. 

“Stop,” Shiro raises his voice, “Lance, I think this place is hurting him, he says he doesn’t remember--”

“ _ Doesn’t remember _ ?” Lance stops, face scrunching up as if they’ve insulted him, “How does he not remember? How do you not remember? You hung around this bridge twenty four seven, Keith.”

He’s gone into full rant mode, tossing his arms and stomping his foot, making the bridge rattle dangerously. That, along with the rapids underneath them, is almost enough for a sensory overload. 

“You were such a loner back then, avoiding the rest of us like a plague. Just because you had better grades than the rest of us doesn’t mean people like me were below you. Even the teachers were sick of your attitude.” His voice crept steadily higher and higher, until he was practically yelling at the top of lungs. “And yet, here I am, trying to help you out in your afterlife, and you have the nerve to tell me you don’t remember  _ anything _ !”

Keith curls himself closer into Shiro, trying to escape the noise. 

“I’m sorry Lance,” the words come out strangled, barely above a whisper. The man wouldn’t hear them either way. 

“Was I so under the radar for you that you didn’t even recognize me? I thought being dead would’ve softened you out, but no. You’re the same selfish bastard you were back then.”

That’s where Shiro crosses the line. 

“That’s enough,” he places his palm on Lance’s chest, but the man bats it away and shoves him back.

“Stay out of this,” Lance warns, giving him another shove.

He doesn’t want things to escalate, not when Keith is having a near meltdown right beside them. When Lance tries shoving him again, he grabs him by the wrist and twists. Bad idea on his part, as this makes the man angrier, enough to try and throw a punch. Now, two things happen in quick succession. 

One, the punch connects. Hard. He feels blood trickle down from his nose. 

Second, by instinct, he shoves the man away from him, with a little more force than necessary. Lance stumbles back, nearly falling off the thin rails of the bridge. He manages to save himself, but now he’s looking at Shiro with fury. And like that, he shouts, throwing his entire body at Shiro, sending them tumbling to the ground, fists flying.

The fight is rough, all honour and mercies out the window. Shiro tries pinning Lance down with his full weight, but then there’s a hand in his hair and blistering pain on his scalp, and he finds their positions switched. He clenches his prosthetic fist before sending it straight into Lance’s nose, the force throwing the man off. He gets to his feet, realizing too late that Lance has done the same, who tackles them down again.

He feels--or rather, sees---Keith try to get Lance off of him, but it’s no use. His hands go straight through, unable to touch, unable to help.

Splintered wood changes to rock and dirt, Shiro figuring that they’ve rolled themselves off the bridge and back onto solid ground. He feels a disconnect between his mind and body, his arms punching and clawing all on their own while his mind screams to stop. 

He doesn’t know how long they’ve wrestled around, only that every inch of his body is in sore pain, and the the metallic taste of blood in his mouth makes him want to gag. The sun has set completely, giving him a nice view of the stars as he lays on his back, defeated. He hears heavy breathing on his right, assuming it to be Lance.

“Fuck,” Lance groans. 

Yeah. Fuck indeed.

Neither of them have ever been in a real fight before. The exertion of their little scuffle has left both of them without enough energy to stand properly, so he isn’t worried about Lance getting up to try again. That, and most of the anger that was there before left with his punches. 

His nose is still bleeding, the blood dripping down onto his lips the source of that metallic tang. There’s a massive bruise forming on his left knuckles, blood on the right. Probably Lance’s. Looking over, the other man isn’t looking so great either, his face more purple and red than his actual complexion. He hopes that neither of them have concussions from all the blows they took to the head.

What were they even doing, fighting like petty teens. He’s too old for this. 

A noise cracks through the constant buzz of the rapids, and he realizes that it came from himself. A laugh. He’s laughing uncontrollably, his stomach and chest complaining at the action but he can’t stop himself.

“The hell are you laughing ‘bout?” Lance grumbles out, but soon enough a chuckle passes through his lips and it devolves into the same maniacal laughter as Shiro’s.

“We really did that, did we? Shit--” he can barely form words between gulps of air “--did we really just do that?”

“You’re goddamn right we did,” Lance replies, though it’s slurred from the cut on his lip.

It takes a while, but soon their crazed laughing dies back down, the sound of the rapids filling his ears. His breathing has returned to its normal state, but Lance is still breathing quite heavily. Had he injured his neck during the fight? He looks over to check if he’s alright, but then he sees the glimmer of the moon reflected from the wetness of his cheeks. Lance doesn’t bother wiping the tears away.

“Keith died here, you know,” he chokes out.

Well, Shiro figured Keith died here, but Lance’s inflection is weird, and it makes him rethink his words again. Oh.  _ Oh _ . Keith died  _ here _ .

He’s had enough time to process the fact that Keith is a ghost, but he’s never thought about the implications of that fact. Keith is a ghost, therefore he must’ve been alive, had some semblance of a life, therefore must’ve died. It’s suddenly much more chilly, a shiver running through his body.

“He hadn’t even been reported missing before,” Lance says, “all I know is that one day Keith didn’t show up to school--he never missed school-- and the next day they were hauling his body out of this river. Said he’d died around eleven a few nights before.”

Shiro can’t any words to say. Any thoughts he tries to voice out are caught in his throat, unable to escape. He heaves himself up despite his body’s protests, moving up to his feet. The sight of the river disgusts him. He sees Lance trying to get up as well, and throws the man’s arm over his shoulder to haul him up.

“I don’t want to be this close to the river either.” He coughs out. Some blood comes out with that cough, landing on Shiro’s sweater.

Unfortunately, neither of them have enough energy to drag themselves more than a few meters, sitting down just where the grass and trees begin to grow. The distance away from the rapids is still much appreciated. 

For a while, neither speak. It’s well needed for Shiro. Stories of death aren’t a stranger for him, but rarely had he ever been close to the person in question. Dread surges through him, in a way he hasn’t felt since he was a child, just learning about his power. 

“The police said his death was likely accidental, but there was this rumour going around,” Lance’s eyes are far away, like how Keith would get when he’d think too hardly about purgatory. 

“What rumour?”

“That he jumped.”

The image of a younger Keith, coming to the wooden bridge to end his life makes him shiver. 

“He was always by himself,” Lance tears some of the overgrown grass, “He never put a single finger on anyone, yet people always called him violent. A lot of rumours were like that. I think--I think he just needed someone with him, you know? If I had actually talked to him that day, said whatever dumb stuff I planned on saying instead of being a coward, maybe he’d be alive today.” Shiro doesn’t need to look over to know Lance has started crying again. “If I had taught him how to swim better, maybe he wouldn’t have drowned.”

“Stop placing blame where it doesn’t belong,” he says firmly, “that’s the past. Whatever happened, happened. Keeping the guilt isn’t going to make things better.”

Keith. The Keith he knows, the one who insists on making all the meals in the house, the one who practically lives in Shiro’s old hoodies, the one who finds happiness and satisfaction in helping others, the one who refused to go mad, to succumb to the darkness of loneliness. That Keith, he knows, would never resort to that choice. He’d claw his way through life if he had his way.

How cruel death is, nipping Keith’s life at the bud, never allowing him to flourish. Just like those kids, swiftly taken away by that damned killer, cursed to walk the earth until someone gets the man or woman responsible behind bars.

Shiro pauses.

From what he’s seen, ghosts exist because they died an unfair death, or have some kind of remaining business among the living. If Keith had jumped, it would’ve been on his own volition, his absolute last resort, a jump without regrets. Falling in by accident wouldn’t make any more sense, as it wouldn’t explain why he’d been at the bridge so late at night in the first place. 

There is no reason for Keith to have become a ghost.

Unless.

“Lance, what if Keith’s death wasn’t a suicide, or an accident?” 

“What do you mean?” Lance sniffles.

“I mean,” he pauses, “what if there was foul play? What if he was pushed?”

Lance brings his arms around his knees, curling in on himself.

“It’s... possible. Keith wasn’t exactly on everyone’s good side.”

Shiro thinks back on every interaction he’s ever had with a ghost, sifting through the small details to try and find anything that could possibly help. With the ghosts he’s helped move on, he’s had to finish their business for them, whether that meant final words to a family member, or making sure their pets make it to safe hands. He’s often bumped into them hanging around certain places, like parks their children frequent, or around pawn shops where their prized possessions are wrongfully sold. 

Keith’s obsession with the case begins to make more sense when aligned with his growing theory.

They need to call Allura.

“We need to go,  _ now _ ,” a pain from his knee pulses as he gets up far too quickly, the world spinning. He straightens himself on a tree as gracefully as he can. 

“Did you think of something?” Lance has more trouble standing than he does.

“Maybe,” he grunts when he touches his knee. He might’ve scraped it, “Keith---”

He stops mid sentence, looking around them, on the bridge, on the hill. Keith is nowhere to be found. The man doesn’t leave tracks either, so he doesn’t even know where to begin looking. 

Lance must’ve caught drift, because he starts shouting out Keith’s name into the forest.

With the darkness taking over, the trees blocking out the moon, Shiro can’t see past three feet in front of him. It takes all his focus to scan his visible path, avoiding any roots and bumps he’d trip over. They’re moving at a snail’s pace, with Lance unable to walk on his own without a crutch, and he himself not doing any better. 

While Lance shouts out Keith’s name over and over, he tries squinting into the black mass of unknown surrounding the both of them. 

Faintly, he hears a cry. 

“Did you hear that?” Shiro stops in his tracks, trying to figure out in which direction the noise came from. He doubts Lance heard it, the sound barely louder than a whisper. The cry echoes again, from his right, and he changes course. 

The pitch of the cry is too high pitched to be Keith’s, but knowing him, the man wouldn’t let himself ignore it. Maybe he’ll be with whoever the source of the sound is. 

They’re lead into a small clearing, the moon illuminating the area. Clearly now, Shiro sees the scratches and stains walking through the forest left on him and Lance. There’s drying blood in the said man’s hair, wincing when he connects that blood with the blood left on his prosthetic. They’ll have to stop at a hospital to check for internal damage. 

Keith is standing on the other side of the clearing, back turned from them, probably unaware of their presence. There, in front of him, crouched in the fetal position, is a young girl, barely looking old enough for middle school, crying hard enough to leave her body shaking.

“Are you alright?” Shiro steadies Lance on a tree beside them, walking slowly to the other side of the clearing. Despite the aching in his knee, he tries crouching his stance, wanting to be as nonthreatening as he can be. His bloodied appearance will likely scare the girl either way, he thinks. “Where’s your mom?”

That’s when Keith turns to him. 

Bruises litter his face, one eye black and swollen. Hauntingly, he looks small, like the skinny boy in the photo back at the pool. The wounds on his knuckles he saw a glimpse of so long ago are back. But when he blinks, it’s all gone, the usual, unharmed, unmistakably adult Keith taking his place. What did he just see?

He’s stumbled back onto the ground, shuffling back. 

“Shiro, what are you seeing?” Lance asks from where he’s leaning on the tree trunk, “Keith, are you here?”

Lance doesn’t mention the little girl in front of them, at that’s when he sees a flash of blood on the crying child. It doesn’t disappear when he blinks. It spreads like ink across the girl’s yellow blouse, originating from her belly. There’s a fatal stab wound. At the rate the girl is bleeding, she should be crouching in a red puddle, but when the blood drips off her body, it disappears, fades away.

A ghost.

“We need to leave,” Shiro grabs Keith’s hand and leads him away without any resistance. He doesn’t say a single word as he leads both he and Lance out of the forest, away from the school, back to the town. The rest of the populace is asleep, blissfully unaware of the distress the three of them just went through.

He’s unable to check his watch, but he’d guess it to be almost midnight, or close to it. 

It takes a bit of fumbling for him to get the car keys out of Lance’s pockets and help the man back into the back seat, but at least the man is coherent enough to fasten his own seat belt. He drapes the torn remains of his sweater over him, for comfort if not anything else. Keith’s already seated in shotgun, looking straight forward even when he takes the driver’s seat.

The route out of the town and back to the city is relatively simple, most of the journey taken up by one unwinding highway. In the back seat, he’s glad to see Lance is still awake, eyes drooping but willing himself conscious. He stomps on the gas pedal. From the corner of his eye, his sees Keith loosen from his previously taut posture. He clenches and unclenches his fists.

“I heard her calling out to me,” Keith’s voice wavers, “she said my name.”

#

Hospitals unnerve Shiro.

The impersonal aura of the lights, the white aesthetic bright enough to give him a headache, the permanent smell of disinfectant, a reminder that the cleanliness of the building is a lie, a weak facade. A mother could be giving birth, granting someone the blessing of life in one room, while someone could be losing their mother in another, breathing her last breath.

He usually judges hospitals by the amount of ghosts he can pinpoint. There are a few he spots while he sits in the waiting area.

Coming as late as they did, looking like they walked off the set of a zombie film, they were given immediate attention. Shiro’s injuries are superficial, he was told. A little rubbing alcohol, tissues, and a box of band aids is all he needed before he was all fixed. 

Lance takes longer. He asks one of the nurses, and she tells him they’re making sure he doesn't have a concussion. She gives him and his prosthetic the stink eye before walking away. 

He’s too tired to be petty and tell her that Lance started it.

Now that they’re far away from the town, Keith’s a little more calm. Not relaxed, but much less tense than he was when they first left. Whenever a ghost comes into their view, he feels him shift uneasily in his seat, averting his gaze by burying his face in Shiro’s shoulder. The little girl in the yellow blouse is still on his mind. She’s on both of their minds.

“Only a little longer, then we’ll be home,” he says softly, ignoring the stare of the custodian down the hall.

A hum is all he gets as a response.

The clack of sneakers against the hospital’s hard floor catches both their attention. Lead by one of the doctors is Lance, blood washed away, with a bandage circling his head and a tissue stuffed up his nose like Shiro has. He’s smiling, which is a good sign.

“No further damage aside from the external,” the doctor, Temi from her name tag, reassures, “you two are free to go. I suggest grabbing some over the counter painkillers, however. Nothing much we can do for those bruises.”

“Thanks, doc.” Lance gives her a friendly wave, and takes back his car keys from Shiro. “I’ll drive the rest of the way.”

Wordlessly, he drives them back to their apartment. Neither of them move to turn the radio on, the mechanical sounds of the car filling in the empty spaces. The city seems much more oppressive under the blanket of night. He can’t see the stars, and the moon is hazy from the pollution around them. The sky gives no comfort to him.

When the car pulls to a stop in front of the apartment building, Shiro begins to unbuckle his seatbelt. He gets out of the car, as does Keith, but he hears a third door open. 

“Wait.” 

Shiro turns around, and sees Lance standing timidly. Shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“Can you tell Keith that I’m sorry?” He asks, “For everything. For bringing him back to his hometown without telling you the truth, for saying everything I said, for--for not doing anything back then.” His eyes begin to water, yet the tears don’t fall. “For everything.”

Before, when Lance had thrown Keith’s past in his face, he’s been met with confusion, frustration. Now, although there’s still that edge of uncertainty in Keith’s eyes, another new feeling is in the mix. An understanding that wasn’t there before. Shiro doesn't know what to think of that.

Keith takes a few steps towards the man, and stops when he’s within a foot of him. Lance continues looking ahead, unaware of the second body close to him. Slowly, Keith lifts up his arms, hugging him in a familiar way that Shiro recognizes as his own.

“He’s hugging you, Lance,” he points out to him.

“He’s  _ what _ ,” the look on his face makes him stifle a laugh, but the noise comes out anyways and Lance sends him a glare without any heat behind it. He raises his arms to try and wrap around Keith, but ends up leaving them awkwardly floating at his side. A smile, a real one, takes over his face.

“I forgive you,” Shiro hears Keith whisper. He wonders silently if relaying it will hold the same effect, but when the tear that stubbornly clung to Lance’s eye finally falls, he knows that Lance felt it, must have felt it, somehow.

He’s the one that pulls away first, drying his eyes and retreating back to his car.

Keith lingers on the sidewalk far after Lance has sped away.

#

The urgency that was with him last night before he saw the little ghost girl returns in full force the next morning when he wakes.

Another thing that comes full force is the aching pain all over his body. Adrenalin and later fatigue let him block out most of the pains the night before (or rather, earlier that morning; they arrived back home past three). Now without anything to hinder it, he feels everything unfiltered and it hurts like hell. 

Keith's already up and moving, bringing him the bottle of painkillers he already had with him, using up the only two left. This reminds him that they never stopped at a pharmacy earlier. Lance’s morning is probably going worse.

The pills work their magic, and Shiro pushes himself upright, only to fall back when the room comes in and out of focus.

“Three hours and forty seven minutes isn’t enough to function,” he groans. 

“You don’t have to go to work,” Keith suggests, his hands coming still, where they were picking out Shiro’s work clothes. 

No matter how appealing snoozing the day away is to him, there’s a bigger task at hand. Momentarily, he entertains the idea of literally rolling out of bed. The fall would wake him up, but there’s the risk of hurting his head, which would make Keith mad. Better not, he thinks.

“I need to go meet with Allura today,” he adds on as an afterthought, “you should come with me.”

He thinks Keith would try to protest more. But then he’s moving again, laying out Shiro’s dress shirt, and tying his tie preemptively out of habit. 

“I will,” he says, and that’s the end of it. 

Not in the mood to walk, Shiro decides to take the subway. His large collection of visible bruises gives him a wide berth of walking space, maybe the only perk of getting into a fist fight with Lance. The early morning crowd is large, himself lucky to have claimed a seat before they were all filled. Keith doesn’t have to deal with the lack of space, his body overlapping with some people standing too close, the sight surreal if not mildly horrifying. A delayed thumbs up is all the reassurance he gets that Keith is fine. 

Shiro takes out his phone to text Katie, having forgotten to do so before.

_ S: gonna be late, tell the boss for me _

_ K: i hate both you and lance,,,  _

_ K: fine but you owe me one _

Going from her text, he guesses Lance decided to call in sick. If he didn’t have access to painkillers, Shiro wouldn't blame him. He scrolls through his contacts to find Allura.

They haven’t spoken since the stilted conversation over the phone after the cafe incident. Granted, it could be because she’s simply busy with her work, as is Shiro, but a small voice in the back of his mind wonders if she really is avoiding him. 

_ S: do you have time to meet up today? _

It takes about five minutes of scrolling through his instagram feed and a game of subtle charades with Keith (that is, Keith striking weird, abstract poses and Shiro trying not to laugh) for him to receive a response.

_ A: i have a bit of time right now if you want //thumbs up _

Nothing about it sounds outwardly cold or awkward, so he sends a short confirmation message and puts his phone away, enjoying the relative peace of the rest of the ride. 

#

Meeting Allura in person is an entirely different story. 

Firstly, he fails to notice that she’s spaced out at her desk, so when he takes his usual seat, the thump startles her and makes her jump three feet in the air.

“Oh!” her eyes snap onto him, shoulders dropping once she realizes it’s not an attack. “You scared me.”

“Sorry,” he says, after a beat.

She doesn’t look him in the eye like she usually does, finding her photo of her father more interesting. The guilt of that day still sits inside him uncomfortably, no matter the amount of times Keith’s repeated that it was necessary. Even if it was necessary, it doesn’t mean he’s okay with picking at obviously raw wounds.  It’s clear that she isn’t going to initiate small talk like before, so he decides to get straight to the point.

“Can you request some police files from the next town over? The uh..” he doesn’t know the name of the place, nor does he recall Lance ever actually saying it.

“I think I know which one you’re talking about,” she types something out on her computer, “the town’s police staff is so little that our force took over responsibility for the area a few years back. I have access to all the files. Is this information relevant to the investigation?”

“I’m not sure,” honestly, he’s not, “but I have a feeling.”

The soft click-clacking of Allura’s keyboard increases in tempo. Meanwhile, he sees Alfor is back, taking residence in the empty desk nearby, giving Shiro a cheeky salute. He returns a polite nod to the ghost, and Keith behind him voices a quick hello. He feels Allura’s pointed stare at the side of his head, turning back to see her studying his every move.

“What am I looking for exactly?” she asks.

“Erm, any missing persons reports within the last fifteen years, and the autopsy of an eighteen year old male, went to Arus High School.”

“Let’s see…” using the mouse, she clicks on a few things before continuing, “there were two children, both of elementary age, that went missing within the time frame you mentioned. The file says they were never found, presumed dead. And that autopsy...here it is, an eighteen year old male, mixed ethnicity, named Ke--” the name gets stuck in her throat. 

Her eyes widen, scanning the screen again, probably rereading the name to make sure she said it right. 

“Is this..?”

“It is.”

He hears her speed type again, then suddenly she shuts down her computer. Messily, she groups together the strewn papers on her desk, not bothering to place them into a portfolio or in any particular order. They move to stand in unison.

“We should continue this in a more confidential area.” He follows her close behind, matching her quick strides.

#

It takes a while, but some new pieces of the puzzle begin to unearth themselves. By confidential, Allura meant one of the farthest storage rooms of the police station, where she claims no on has entered since the seventies. From the sheer amount of dust and cobwebs, he’s inclined to believe her. 

The stories of the two missing children line up with the MO of their current killer: last seen around innocuous places, like the playground. Some clues were left behind at first thought useful, but proved to be fruitless in their search. Approximately one week after each child went missing, the police closed the case.

“They aren’t supposed to do that,” Allura had pointed out.

For some reason, the fact had bothered her so much that she looked up who was assigned to the cases. What, or who, they found, was strange. There were photos of four officers, all men, who were directly involved in the cases. Only one caught both their attention.

“I didn’t know Sendak used to be an officer,” the sight of the CEO, younger and without the patch on his right eye was unnerving, in his opinion.

“That explains why he was trying to boss us around when we went to investigate his claims,” she huffed bitterly. Turned out Sendak was as big of a prick as Katie made him out to be.

For the most part, Keith left them to their own devices, watching silently in the corner of the room. Occasionally, he’d have something of importance to say, like pointing out a detail they missed, or a speculation. He’d relay this to Allura, and each time he’d be pleasantly surprised that she didn’t react negatively at the mention of the ghost’s presence.

They’d blown through all the files, agreeing that the disappearances back then are likely linked to the disappearances now, and now all that’s left presently is Keith’s autopsy report.

One part of him doesn’t want to look at it, in fear of what it may contain. That vision of Keith beaten black and blue back at the forest, he’s not sure whether it’d be worse if it was just his imagination, or a premonition of what was to come. Another part of him is morbidly curious.

Allura spares him from seeing the photo, and decides to read out the report for both of them.

“Body found at eight o’ two am. Approximate time of death twelve fifteen am two night before. Body had bruises, mostly around the face, arms, and knuckles.” He could tell that she was skimming ahead, omitting the gritty details and simplifying the descriptions for his sake. “Final conclusion: bruises and other bodily wounds are unrelated to the cause of death, which is by drowning in the rapids of the river. Death was accidental.”

“So where did the bruises come from?” He almost regrets asking.

“The report says that Keith was a ‘problem child’. Wounds likely obtained from rough housing, unrelated to cause of death.”

A sharp intake of breath comes from Keith, whose arms are crossed and face scowling. He waits for the man to comment, who simply shakes his head and looks away.

The term ‘problem child’ getting slapped onto Keith didn’t sit right with him. Someone saw the body, saw the bruises, and didn’t think anything of it. But something else about it doesn’t sit right in his gut. The explanation is too vague, assuming too much without providing much to back it up.

_ He never put a single finger on anyone, yet people always called him violent _ .

“I don’t think those bruises came from rough housing,” he says. Allura hums in thought. 

“Yeah, I agree,” she’s looking down at the report, troubled, “it’s also a little suspicious that his estimated time of death occurred a day after the second kid, Tina Martineau, disappeared.”

“Are you thinking the same thing I’m thinking?”

There are many things one could argue. Keith doesn’t fit the demographic. The style of murder, if one at all, is radically different. The time of which he spent missing is vastly shorter than the other children, who spent a few weeks at least missing, their bodies never found until the killer gets bored, or lets them be found. That number of arguments rivals the number of counters.

“If you’re thinking that there’s a connection between Keith and the missing children, then yes,” Allura nods.

Keith stands stiffly in the corner, no doubt uncomfortable. He sends a sympathetic smile, but the man doesn’t entertain him. It doesn't even look like he’s focused at all, staring at a random spot on the wall.

A quick chime from Allura’s phone cuts through the room, and when she checks it, she turns an interesting shade of red. 

“Shoot, I forgot,” she starts gathering all the files they laid out, and Shiro moves to help her. “That was Lance. He’s at my desk wondering where I am.”

“You two hang out often?” 

“We meet sometimes,” she doesn't elaborate further than that, “you and Keith have been a massive help, I can’t thank either of you enough.”

“You’re welcome,” he replies dumbly, unable to think of anything else.

Shiro expects Allura to walk away now, to meet up with Lance and talk about who knows what. But she stands in place, hugging the papers protectively against her chest. The only exit is the door she’s blocking, so he has no way of gracefully escaping without making his intent obvious. Without anything to say, Shiro keeps his mouth shut, and waits patiently.

“I want to apologize for my behaviour again, back at the cafe,” she says slowly, each word coming out clear.

“It’s fine, Allura--”

“No,” she cuts him off, “it’s not.”

She’s tense, he notices. Much like the tense she was during the incident. This time, he doesn’t feel the boiling anger directed at him, rather, her anger looks to be at herself. He worries that she’ll ruin the documents if she presses them any harder.

“I didn’t even get to say goodbye.” 

If Shiro didn’t know her any better, he would’ve gone in for a hug, a nice pat on the back. But he does know her, and he knows when she’d rather be given space and time. Any sort of reach, and she’ll clam the issue back down into herself, resolving nothing. 

“That guilt you spoke of,” her voice remains at a constant level, too even to be natural, “I thought over the past, and I think I’ve started to heal. There’s still a lot of skeletons, but I can say one thing for certain.” She pauses, and her voice holds a conviction, an unwavering confidence. “I don’t blame my father anymore. I’m thankful for all he’s done. I just hope he knows that.”

Though simple, Shiro can feel the importance of those words being spoken out loud, words that must have taken all her strength to say so clearly. Maybe that day at the cafe did some good after all.

Shiro notices Alfor for the first time in the room, who begins to fade from the legs up. The gaze the old man has for Allura is filled with nothing but pride, happiness, and love. Overwhelming, unconditional love. 

“I think he’s known that from the start,” Shiro says.

#

“I wonder if hell is as hot and fiery as the books at the library make it out to be,” Keith says, voice quiet in the darkness.

Shiro had been drifting off to sleep when Keith voiced his thought. Most nights were the same. Something about the softness of the bed and the comfort of the dark lets them talk more openly and freely. Both the nonsensical and the heavy are welcomed with the night. Keith’s comment only comes off as strange because they’d agreed to let Shiro rest about an hour ago. It’s only by chance that he’s still awake to hear this voiced thought. Blinking, he props himself up on one elbow to look down at him. 

“Why are you thinking about that?” He tucks back a piece of hair blocking out Keith’s face from view, and the man eyes him wearily. It pains him to see him so distant, so resigned. 

“I think going to that town with Lance jogged some of my memory.”

The first thought that appears in Shiro’s head is why he didn’t mention anything sooner. The second is to contact Allura and see if he can remember anything that might aid in the investigation further. The third, more empathetic thought, kills his previous ones. Nothing about Lance’s small hints at Keith’s life paints it in a very warm picture.

“I can’t remember any specific facts or details. But,” like the words have gotten stuck in his throat, Keith puts a hand over his mouth. After a moment, he lets out a shaky breath. “It felt horrible. I did some bad things. I hurt so many people already. What kind of god would ever let someone like me into heaven?”

Definitely not the same kind of god who dealt him so many awful cards in his short life, Shiro thinks bitterly. The concept of god is strange for him. If there is one, he holds plenty of resentment. How could he not? His sixth sense is the sole cause of many woes in his life, and he never asked to receive that sort of power in the first place. The thought of there being no god is equally as terrifying.

He leans down, brushing his lips against Keith’s neck, the man squirming at the sensation. He kisses it, going down until his collar bones before speaking again.

“If you’re going to hell, then I’m coming down with you,” Shiro murmurs into his skin. “If you’re bad, then I’m just as bad as you. We’re a package deal. God can deal with that.”

No matter how much he wants to, Shiro knows he can’t speak in certainties. There’s no certainty that it’ll be pleasant, but at the very least, even if he has to confront the god himself, there’s no way he’ll abandon Keith. That’s the one thing he won’t let the universe take away. The universe owes him that much, he thinks.

Keith laughs airily. “You’re insane,” he tugs Shiro up to his lips, kissing him hard and soft all at once.

#

Tuesdays were never good days.

Nothing specifically tragic happened on a Tuesday to make Shiro dislike it, no. It’s just over the years he’s noticed a little pattern, like Fridays are always a chaotically good day, and Wednesday are weirdly lucky days.

He met Keith on a Wednesday.

Tuesdays, in his experience, held nothing but trouble. Coffee spilling, glass shattering, printer breaking trouble. He stopped trying to make Tuesdays a good day back in his teens, convinced that nothing could fix a dreaded Tuesday. 

He wakes up in Keith’s arms on a Tuesday.

More specifically, he wakes up on top of Keith’s chest, the man’s arms wrapped protectively around him. For someone with little to no fat, he’s surprisingly soft and comfortable to lay on. Despite himself, he starts succumbing to the comfort, eyes closing, wanting nothing more than to stay like this forever.

When the alarm inevitably rings, Keith gives him a sleepy hello, and he can’t find it in himself to be too mad.

That's the funny thing. He’s told Shiro before that ghosts don’t require sleep, like how they don’t require food. Before, Keith would lay still for eight hours in the bed with him, awake. Now, he arguably gets more hours of sleep than Shiro does. It warms his heart that Keith’s content enough to let himself rest that thoroughly.

“Stay here, I can make my own breakfast,” he sits up and nuzzles his forehead. 

Keith rolls onto his stomach, burying his face into Shiro’s pillow. He makes out the words, “don’t burn the kitchen down again” from his muffled voice.

He ends up going safe and making some coffee and toast, but it’s good enough for him. After he notices the time, he quickly gets dressed and presses one last kiss on top of Keith’s head. Usually, he accompanies Shiro on most of his work days, not because he finds Shiro’s job entertaining (it isn’t), but because he doesn’t like hanging around the house by himself, and would prefer to be around Shiro. Keith seems quite content to stay in bed though, so he doesn’t try to push him out.

“I’ll see you after work,” he whispers, “I love you.”

The last sentence is an accident, a thought he hadn’t meant to voice out loud. The sentiment had always gone unsaid, though there had been no doubt about it for a long time. Knowing it and acknowledging it are two different things, however. Keith lifts his head from the pillow, his stubborn bangs falling on his face, the longest part curling off the bridge of his nose. even with his hair sticking up in all directions and the drool drying on the side of his face, Keith looks absolutely perfect to him.

“I love you too, Shiro.” He lays his head back down, closing his eyes.

Maybe Tuesdays aren’t so bad as he thought.

#

At work, nothing is getting done, but for once he’s okay with that. The bosses have finally given them the small mercy of a break, and everyone is using that break to its fullest potential. Every single break room he knows of is packed to the brim with his coworkers. Luckily, Katie called dibs on the couches before hand for them.

Squished between Hunk and Lotor (who Shiro wonders if his boss even cares that he spends ninety five percent of his day goofing off on their floor), they’re playing a game of go fish with the pack of cards someone bought at the convenience store down the street. The only ones taking the game seriously now are Matt and Katie. They’ve turned the innocent game into a sort of a gamble, winner takes the other’s life savings, or so he heard Matt declare. 

The conversation around him is just as nonsensical, jumping from what if scenarios to the logistics of mecha shows. His mind easily drifts away. Just a few short months before, he would’ve offered his spot to someone else, preferring to stand just a little ways back, quietly listening to the talks but never actively partaking in them. He’d been convinced they only let him hang around out of politeness. With the help of Keith and Lance, he’s learned to accept that others care for him, truly and simply. 

That doesn’t mean he’s used to getting the spotlight. Sometime during his little space out, the attention had been turned to him, everyone’s eyes expecting him to say something.

“Sorry, can you repeat that again?” He says, concluding that someone must’ve asked him a question.

“I asked,” Lotor beside him speaks up, “if you and your boyfriend broke up, since, you know, he’s yet to make his appearance known.”

That sparks a thought in his mind. Allura knows, Lance knows, but as far as everyone else knows, his boyfriend is something akin to a cryptid, an office urban legend. The urge to come clean to the others isn’t all consuming, though he’d prefer to stop hiding things away nowadays. He files that away, another thing he should discuss with Keith. 

Before he can properly formulate an answer, Lance speaks up beside Matt.

“He’ll come see us when he’s ready. Don’t rush the poor guy,” he says matter of factually. Only Shiro catches the quick look he sends to him. That glance is meaningless, to anyone who does notice it, but between them it speaks many thoughts, ones that could only be deciphered by them alone. Mostly, it’s understanding.

“I’ll talk about it with Keith later.” The vague and inconclusiveness of his response gets a few exaggerated groans and head shakes, but only Lance can appreciate how far he’s come to able to say that. 

As nosy as everyone is, they decide to be merciful and don’t push further than that final statement. Lance gives him one last look, and offering, an extension of the hand.  _ Do you want to talk about it? _ Shiro breaks their eye contact, jumping back into the game of go fish when he notices Matt’s about to lose all his money to his sister. He waves a hand in Lance’s direction.  _ It’s okay _ .

A little bit later, once he’s assured Katie won’t rob her brother of all he owns and then some, he excuses himself and goes to the newly purchased coffee makers. Waiting for his brew, he takes out his phone to occupy himself.

He and Allura are back on good terms, actual good terms, not the tense and awkward terms they both tried to play off as normal. She’d been bending and breaking a lot of rules when she showed him those documents, so he isn’t surprised when she’s vague with the progress. There’s a few new text notifications. Katie sent him another meme that he doesn’t understand. A monthly text from his mother and father asking about his well being that he’s considering actually answering with more than three words. A text from Lance, sent just now. He looks across the room, and the man is slouching on the couch, casually scrolling through his own phone.

_ L: r u actually serious abt the keith thing or _

_ S: yeah. if i give him a bit of warning, i think he might actually be up for it. _

_ L: ooo nice talkin it out w the hubby _

_ L: lmk if theres anything i can do to help ok? _

That last text, Shiro looks over again. And again.

_ S: of course _

_ S: if i didn’t know you any better, i’d think you’re trying to steal keith away from me _

_ L: ew _

_ L: i extend my friendship to u, welcome u and keith with open arms and this is the thanks i get  _

_ L: if i didnt know  _ you _ any better, id think ur tryna pull moves on allura _

_ S: //crying laughing emoji _

_ L: dont u play dumb she told me abt u two in the interrogation room. ur on thin ice buddy  _

The coffee maker rings, pulling Shiro’s attention away from his phone. He puts it down with a snort and pours a good amount into one of the clean mugs. Suddenly, it starts ringing, and he assumes it to be Lance trying to be dramatic but the man has already put his phone away. He grabs it to answer with one hand, while the other pours cream into the cup. 

“Hello?” Shiro forgot to check caller identification, He hopes he didn’t accidentally answer a telemarketer.

“Shiro.” to his pleasant surprise, it’s Allura. She sounds frantic and out of breath, and that immediately makes him worry. His concern is slightly quelled when he hears her laugh across the line. “You won’t believe it.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m okay! I’m okay,” she squeals. The sound a little bit too loud for his ears, so he pulls the phone away from his ear. She’s talking a hundred miles an hour, his mind unable to take in the plethora of information she’s hurling at him. He only catches the last part of her word vomit. “---they’re heading over to the building to arrest him as we speak. Can you imagine the headlines?”

“Allura, I caught none of what you just said.”

“It’s Sendak! The evidence we’ve gathered finally makes a cohesive story, and it all points right to Sendak. He’ll be behind bars for the rest of his life.”

The news doesn’t hit him immediately. It feels like there’s static behind his eyes, like his brain lost its connection to the rest of his body, unable to take input or give output. The world around him visibly slows. The case, it’s solved. Just like that. All the frustration and confusion it gave him, and ten fold for Allura, is finally over. He can’t even begin to imagine to relief and untethered satisfaction the woman must be feeling, who had given her entire soul to finishing the puzzle. Without the weight of it, Shiro thinks he might start floating away.

Quickly, the weight of a realized dread replaces it. Keith’s killer has finally been caught. Keith’s last unfinished business is at last taken care of. Keith is free to move onto the afterlife, whatever that may mean for him.

Keith is going to disappear.

Shiro feels a sudden cold shudder through his body.

“Shiro.” Hunk’s voice cuts through the silent room. He’s unsure when the background conversation had died. The frigid sensation on his hand turns out to be the cream he’d been pouring into his coffee cup, though most of it is spilt over the counter and onto the floor now, the small remainder rolling down the carton and onto his fingertips. Hunk, Katie and the rest of them eye him worriedly, Lance most especially so, but he doesn’t care enough to give an explanation. 

He abruptly ends the call with Allura, regretting it for a split moment but doesn’t linger on the feeling too much as he briskly walks out of the break room, opting for the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator. His strides become longer and longer, until he’s breaking into a full out sprint down the lobby and out onto the busy streets, bumping and narrowly sidestepping his way through. 

If there’s one advantage he has right now, it’s that he knows where Keith is. Shiro just hopes that’s enough. 

#

It’s been a long while since Keith’s made peace with his situation.

At the beginning, when his beginning had begun, he experienced no pain, no sadness. It was only when he’d encountered other ghosts that loneliness became his only company. Since then, he’d been trying so hard to go back to his uncaring state, his ignorance to things like emotions. That had been easier, so much easier. 

Shiro was only meant to be temporary. 

An addiction. That’s what it was. Once Keith got a dose, he was drawn to the man like a moth to light. His withdrawal ended up hurting not only himself, but Shiro as well. He still hasn’t forgiven himself for that mistake. 

It’s still incredibly scary for him to think, that one day everything that he’s built with Shiro, that trust, that kindness, will cease to exist. Shiro will move on with his life eventually, meet someone else, someone  _ alive _ , and he’ll forget about Keith. He’s okay with that. Shiro’s happiness is his happiness, and if he needs to forget about him within the next year or two for that to happen, then so be it.

But for now, he’ll be selfish. 

Shiro’s scent is most concentrated on his pillow. He can’t think of a way to properly describe it; A little sharp, a little musky, but not overpoweringly so. It’s not the work of a cologne or perfume. It’s entirely  _ Shiro _ . He buries his face further into the softness. 

He would’ve followed Shiro to work, but the night before he hadn’t gotten any sleep. Not that he needed sleep to survive, it was just that he’d been sleeping for leisure recently, and the change in schedule must have tricked his body into mimicking fatigue. 

Those old memories of his, if he can call them that. They’re more similar to abstract feelings rather than true recollections, swirling masses when he closes his eyes, splotches of colour, of sound, of emotion. Keith doesn’t like them. He thought remembering his past would be good, but they’ve brought him nothing but confusion and sleepless nights. The night of his death especially gives him chills. That adrenaline, fear, and anger, along with the disturbing imagery of his dead body in those photos...he’d rather be ignorant. 

Rolling over onto his side, the digital clock on the nightstand tells him he’s been lounging around for at least an hour. Even if there’s nothing pressing he needs to get to, he’d feel a little bad for sleeping the day away. 

The floor feels cold against his bare feet. That’s another new occurrence. The physical world can’t affect him, that’s one thing he knows for certain. But as with all the other weird inconsistencies with his existence, he doesn’t linger too much on it. 

As he makes his way down to the kitchen to see if there’s anything if he can whip up quick and stash in the fridge later for dinner, a pulsing pain surges through his body. He collapses to the ground, enveloped in the numbness that follows the spike. 

Keith makes the fatal mistake of reaching his arm out to one of the table legs, because it offers him a full view of the horrific sight fading into reality on the outstretched appendage. Bruises blossom onto his knuckles, reddening spots on his skin and cuts among other things. If he were able to look in a mirror, he has no doubt that there would be the same injuries as his autopsy described. 

The physical manifestation of his corpse’s blemishes are only the start, however. A deeper ache, starting from his temples and making its way down to his jaw. The memories. They flood all at once, and suddenly he loses sight of the world, lost in his own mind. Everything comes simultaneously, and Keith feels like he’s drowning. His birth. His short lived childhood with his father, mother nowhere to be found. The day his father left for work and never came home. All the rough times he had with foster parents, before begrudgingly settling with a family that never spared him a second glance. They all come, full colour. Middle school memories flash by, as does most of high school. The stupid swim team Lance talked about, the same club he was forced into, appears briefly. After that, he knows what’s to come last.

His death.

He’s at that bridge that Lance showed him. It’s his fifth time sneaking out late at night, his foster parents none the wiser. The bridge is a comfort to him; there’s nothing but the constant whoosh of the river and rich forest to lose yourself in. He’s by himself. He thinks he’s by himself, until a rustling from the bushes behind him grabs his attention.

A girl in a yellow blouse, no older than ten, trips over herself, quickly getting back on her feet. She’s afraid. Afraid of what? Afraid of me? Keith raises his arms hoping to calm her down, but once she realizes she’s not alone, she clings to his leg, nearly making him topple over. It might have been the dark feeding into his paranoia, but he has a feeling the girl wasn’t out at midnight by herself for a stroll. 

Keith doesn’t know any other way to comfort her, so he starts simple. He tells her his name. That does little to nothing for her trembling, but at least she takes her face out of his thigh. Another rustling makes her jump, and he wastes no time getting her behind him. 

A large man, much larger than his own skinny frame, emerges from the shadows wearing a hockey mask and wielding a knife, like some sick version of Freddy Krueger. Clearly he wasn’t expecting a second guest, as once he catches sight of Keith he goes to attack him.

The fight is the only part of the memory that gets fuzzy. Keith’s disadvantaged from the start, only packing half the mass of the other man and having to shove a little girl away before she’s trampled, but his smaller stature allows him to avoid a couple of swipes and get in a few of his own. At one point, he socks a perfect blow at the man’s eye, force enough to crack the mask he’s wearing. As the pieces of it fall to the ground, he gets one good look at the man’s face.

Even without sunlight, he can tell the damage to the man’s eye will be permanent. The swelling isn’t what throws him off. He recognizes that face. That same, ugly, intimidating face he’s seen on the news channels a couple of times.

The CEO of Galra Incorporated, Sendak.

Despite all his best efforts, Sendak overtakes him, getting plenty of good hits at his face before he falls to his knees. He can’t breathe. It feels as though his lungs have disappeared, leaving him without a voice to cry out for help. The only solace he has is that it’s dark enough that the little girl won’t be able to see the damage. 

Yanking him up by the hair, Sendak pushes him against the low rails of the bridge. The sound of the rapids makes his heart race, the sinister smirk on his assailant’s face only confirming his fears. He is going to die. He is going to die here, on this bridge, and no one in the world would ever care. 

The last thing Keith feels is the iciness of the water rushing over his body before he comes back to reality. 

The shakiness in his breath, one that he doesn’t need, but it certainly helps, helps him get back up from the floor. It takes him a minute to calm down. His guesses were correct. His life wasn’t much better than his purgatory, He can’t even have the satisfaction of having saved the little girl, as her ghost’s appearance proved. First, he thinks to somehow get in contact with Allura, but when he mindlessly brushes his hand through his hair, he notices it.

He knows what happens to ghosts who finally get to move on. He’s seen it more than once. And more than once he’s daydreamed of finally seeing it happen to himself. But none of the joy he thought he’d feel comes, when he sees his hand turning transparent. 

#

It must’ve been only a minute or so, but for Shiro it feels like it’s been hours. Never has his apartment building felt so far away before, and it doesn’t help that his body feels like it’s going to shut down on him any minute. The looks that would’ve usually unnerved him don’t even register in his mind as he forces his way through the streets. 

Of all days for Keith to sleep in. Of all days for Allura to make the arrest. His legs are burning, but he grits his teeth and runs faster. 

Ever since he found out Keith was a ghost, the countdown of their remaining time together ticked on at the back of his mind, where he forced it to stay in the background. It’d be a waste of time to worry about it, he thought. But now that the clock has reached its inevitable zero, he regrets not paying attention. 

There are still so many things he wants to do, to say. He wishes he took Keith to see the world, to show him it’s as beautiful as it is unfair. He wishes he could cook for Keith one last time, even if all his dishes end up burnt in some way. He wishes he could spend one last last holding him close, shield him from the skies, the universe, the gods. 

He wishes he gets the chance to say goodbye. 

Just as the apartment building comes into view, so does Keith, throwing the doors open, startling a nearby mother pushing a stroller. 

_ Wait, what? _

Bystanders evade and side eye Keith, who leans against the wall of the building, grunting in pain and exhaustion. Shiro’s shirt hangs off of him, looking like he quite literally rolled out of bed. Even from Shiro’s considerable distance, he can see that he’s already turning a ghostly transparent. Frantically, he screams out his name.

“Keith!” 

Their gazes meet, those eyes never failing to take his remaining breath away. Keith runs, bumping into others, sometimes head on, unused to the obstacles. More and more, with each second, he’s able to see clearly through him.

Fifteen meters. Keith shouts his name, though it comes out almost indistinguishable compared to his heavy breaths. Shiro can’t even spare a muscle to shout back.

Ten meters. The people around them get the memo and move off to the side, now watching the spectacle of Keith’s feet and ankles fading out of existence. Some even take out their phones, and Shiro wonders if the man will be seen in the footage.

Five meters. Shiro doesn’t slow, bracing himself to catch Keith, who jumps the rest of the distance into his awaiting arms. He’s heavy. He has weight. He’s  _ real _ .

Neither of them are able to voice a word, their breaths mingling with each other. To his horror, Keith’s face flashes between different states, from normal, to a rounder and softer look from his teen years, to the bloodied mess it was at his death. With a blink, he wills them away, leaving the real Keith’s flushed and mussed up face in his sights. 

“I’m sorry,” Keith says, “I--- my time is up. I didn’t know.”

Tears finally fall from Shiro’s face, Keith’s hands cupping his jaw and his thumbs wiping them away. He leans forward so that their foreheads rest together. “Don’t be sorry, don’t you dare say you’re sorry.”

Looking down, he sees that Keith’s legs are gone almost entirely, only leaving his upper thighs. He’s fading at a faster rate. At most, he has half a minute more. Thirty seconds isn’t enough to say everything he wants to say. No amount of time would ever be enough. Before he can even start, the hands that rested loosely on his jaw force him to look back into Keith’s eyes.

“I need you to do something for me,” he voices seriously, “after I disappear, I want you to forget about me.” A finger that presses against his lips prevents Shiro from retorting. “Please. I need you to forget about me. I need you to live for me, for both of us.”

“But how am I supposed to live without  _ you _ ?” It comes out as a sob, his eyes watering until his vision becomes blurry. He doesn’t want to go back to work, back to his apartment, knowing that Keith won’t be there. 

He doesn’t get a response. He doesn’t expect one. 

There’s one thing in his mind that takes priority to say. 

“Goodbye,” he whispers.

For a moment, it seems that it was too quiet for Keith to hear, but the man’s expression turns into a smile, the corner of his eyes crinkling. Only now does he realize that Keith’s crying too. He burns this image into his mind, despite Keith’s request. He’ll lock it away, into the depths of his memories, burying but not truly forgetting. He hopes that is enough. 

“Goodbye, Shiro,” Keith replies.

“I love you,” Shiro says, but he’s too late. Keith is gone, and he falls to his knees. For the first time in his life, Shiro screams at the sky.

#

At the age of eighty nine, Takashi Shirogane lays on his hospital bed, happy and content without any remaining regrets.

The day that Keith left haunted him for many years, but now it’s nothing more than a fuzzy memory. All he can really recall is Keith’s last request for him to live. And live he did. Just a few weeks after that, he quit his office job and went to work with Allura, finally using his power for good. They became famous in the business for solving the toughest murder cases in history. 

Shiro didn’t marry, though he’s sure Keith wouldn’t be too angry about that. Instead, he devoted his time to his work, and later on to his adopted child, a boy he named Keith. 

That boy,  _ man _ , sits at his bedside, gently holding his hand. He’s the only one left to be there. Shiro outlived the rest of his peers.

He and the office group stayed miraculously close even after he quit. They moved past being work friends, and they became his lifelong friends through the thick and thin of it. He’ll never let himself forget the happiness they shared at Lance’s and Allura’s wedding.

Keith would be proud. He hopes he’s proud, up in heaven.

Shiro feels tired, so he closes his eyes to rest for a moment. When he opens them, however, he’s no longer in his hospital bed. He’s greeted by an endless blue sky, white clouds floating along happily. Sitting up, there’s nothing but a vast green field around him, the wind gently rustling the grass, swaying to a silent rhythm. He feels more energetic than he has in years. Looking down, he sees that his body looks as it was when he was twenty five, muscle, prosthetic and all. 

“Shiro.”

There’s someone with him. To his left, Keith greets him, not looking any day older than when he left. He extends a hand, and Shiro takes it, hauling him to his feet. Shiro chuckles, satisfied that he was right. Keith really does look beautiful with angel wings. Just like an artist’s priceless painting. 

“Shiro,” Keith says, “I love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> yell at me on tumblr [@kittykattykatherine](https://kittykattykatherine.tumblr.com/)


End file.
